


Communication Issues (Alternative Title: Three Touch-Starved, Insecure, Metaphysical Beings Constantly Misinterpreting Each Other and Yet Somehow Falling in Love)

by WaeRose



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: ((dont worry abt remus hes aromantic i decided. irrelevant to plot but i want u 2 know.), Analogince - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is a Good Friend, Arguments, Autistic Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Has ADHD, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is a Good Friend, Crying, FUCK, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of????? idk im bad at judging what constituted a panic attack, Logic | Logan Sanders Is A Good Friend, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Platonic Loceit, Platonic Logicality - Freeform, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Unintentional Emotional Repression, aka all of them, creativitwins also!!, i have a special little divider that will show when the pov changes for u :3, implied moceit, it/its pronouns, its also second person present tense because i wanted to try something new, its my fanfiction and i get to project as much as i want!, none of them are neurotypical. You know me by now., oh major tmi but its fine we're all friends here. Anyway:, the other ones might show up but this ain't about them, their rooms can do weird stuff, they are all care so much about each other, to other people but also themselves :), which is ironic becuz i had one today lol, yes i had a h/mst/ck phase no we aren't talking about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24809839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaeRose/pseuds/WaeRose
Summary: What do you do when you find someone crying, and it’s all your fault? What do you say when you hear the muffled sobs and frantic words behind the blood-red door? When you know that, no matter how much you never wanted to hurt him- never wanted to hurt anyone- you still did. Is there anything you can do to fix it, when you’ve spent so long pretending that nothing was broken? When you’ve spent so long pretending that you didn’t care if things were broken or not?Well, if you're Logan Sanders, a metaphysical representation of the logical thinking of one Thomas Sanders (and you are, for the purposes of this story), then you book it down the hall in a desperate effort to find someone more emotionally competent to solve the problem.Alternately summarized; If you're not going to love yourself, then I guess we'll have to do it for you. Stupid.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil/Creativity | Roman/Logic | Logan, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 146





	1. What Are Friends For?

**Author's Note:**

> Me??? Ripping my own heart out and stabbing it???? Fuck yes. I mean, it's ME, so you know it'll have a happy ending (allow me to refer you to Complexities Unknowable lol), but fuck if I'm not gonna be dramatic about getting there. Strap urself in baby.  
> Also: I really actually like writing in second person point of view!!!! it's fun!!! Present tense is weird for me, but also a fun experiment :3. It probably won't be a regular thing now, but I'll probably do more stuff like this in the future. (I'll die before I write first person tho babey.)  
> So anyway Analogince is fucking God Tier because these three have The Least Emotional Skills and it's Fun. They r all mean becuz they don't want u 2 know how much they actually care like,,,, oh babeys. Little Babeys.  
> -WJ

What do you do when you find someone crying, and it’s all your fault? What do you say when you hear the muffled sobs and frantic words behind the blood-red door? When you know that, no matter how much you _ never  _ wanted to hurt him- never wanted to hurt  _ anyone- _ you still did. Is there anything you can do to fix it, when you’ve spent so long pretending that nothing was broken? When you’ve spent so long pretending that you didn’t  _ care  _ if things were broken or not? 

Well, if you're Logan Sanders, a metaphysical representation of the logical thinking of one Thomas Sanders (and you are, for the purposes of this story), then you book it down the hall in a desperate effort to find someone more emotionally competent to solve the problem. 

The search is short, lasting just to the bottom of the stairs. As soon as your feet touch down on the living room carpet, your haste brings you slamming into just the side you were looking for. Hands wrap around your middle, narrowly stopping you from stumbling over. 

“Geez, L, what’s the-” Virgil doesn’t finish his sentence, his expression wrinkling in concern when he sees your face. He leans down to your level, his gaze flickering over you to search for injuries. 

You take a step back and shake your head, struggling to explain. 

“Roman- I- He-” you’re supposed to be articulate, intelligent, eloquent- but when it comes to feelings, you never are. You never _ have been. _ You try so hard nowadays, but God, do you still need help sometimes. Like these times. These confusing, awful times when you hear dear sweet Creativity sobbing self-deprications loud enough to be heard from well outside of his room, many of which are dramatized repetitions of things that  _ you have said to him _ .

“Is he okay?!” Virgil, bless him, snaps you out of the oncoming mental panic before it renders you any more useless. 

“Physically, yes- as far as I know- but emotionally, well-” you cut off, terrified of choking up. He seems to catch your meaning, though. 

Virgil doesn’t ask any follow up questions. He grabs your arm and the room blurs. Static hisses against your ears and pricks at your skin, this form of transportation being mostly foreign to you. You don’t even rise up, merely popping into existence right in front of Roman’s door. Virgil throws it open before you have the chance to react. 

Roman doesn’t notice the increased population of his room, which is concerning. His back is to the door as he works fervently at his desk, but evidently not making progress, shaking as he is. He’s muttering under his breath, much quieter than what you’d overheard before, but you can hear distinct utterances like ‘ _ unrealistic… overused… disappointment… _ ’ et cetera, et fucking cetera. __

“ **_Roman, what happened_ ** ?” Virgil’s voice is distorted, loud and quiet all at once. You barely keep yourself from covering your ears. 

Roman clamps his mouth shut mid-wail, his hands spasming in surprise against his desk. His quill drops to the paper with a soft clatter, a sound that echoes about the walls. Then, the only noise left is his staggering breathing. 

Slowly, Roman peers over his shoulder at you, eyes puffy and red with mascara practically dripping down his chin. 

A gasp draws from you, against your will, at the sight. 

Roman makes some strangled throat-clearing sounds before trying to speak. 

“Oh, hey-” 

“ **_Nope, none of that_ ** ,” Virgil is across the room in two strides, effortlessly taking the lead in this situation. You can’t push yourself any further into the room, but you do shut the door behind you. Probably best not to involve any of the more unpredictable sides in what was sure to be an… emotionally charged discussion. 

Roman looks absolutely mortified, jolting up from his chair and backing into the wall like a cornered animal. With distance between himself and Virgil reestablished, he then buries his face in his hands. He trembles like a leaf caught in the wind of fall, and he’d probably crumble just as easily. 

Many times in your life, you’ve wished that you couldn’t feel. You even had yourself convinced that you couldn’t, for a while there. Now, all you wish is to know how to feel correctly. You’re meant to _know_ _things_ , Logan, aren’t you?

“Alright, so I’ve been having a bit of a rough time,” Roman’s voice cracks and wavers when he speaks, “It’s just writer’s block. Sure, I got a tad bit frustrated- but I’ll be back on track in no time, I promise! You needn’t concern yourself with my momentary lapse, I’ll have a new story for you by Saturday at the latest!” 

He’s looking at  _ you _ . Virgil is standing right next to him, but he’s looking at you, all the way across the room. He’s trying to… appease you? Reason with you? Give you what he thinks you want?

_ Say something, Logan. _

“ ** _You_** **_n_** eed to take a break, Ro,” Virgil’s voice slips back to normal, “C’mon, you’re overworking yourself,” he tries to be nonchalant, but it’s obvious just how concerned he is. You can hardly blame him. When he reaches his hand out, Roman recoils, showing his face enough to see the guilt written across it. 

You need to say something, goddammit. 

“I can’t just ‘ _ take a break _ ’,” he spits, “I can’t stop now. I need to get this done first- I’ll stop when I finally do this _ properly _ . So, maybe never, right?” He laughs, horrible and twisted, and he looks at you because he’s really, truly asking you. Is he really expecting you to agree? Is that the impression you’ve left him with? 

You say something.

“This is all my fault.”

Clearly, neither of them expected that. You press on.

“Your worth as a side-” no, not quite right, “-Your worth as a person is not measured solely by your productivity. I know we’ve talked before about the damages of excessive perfectionism, but I know I may not have been effective in ‘showing not telling’ that your ideas don’t need to be flawless. My harshness. My Coldness. I thought I was doing better, but obviously... I was wrong.” Again. 

Virgil looks half-way to anger, but it’s unclear what he’s directing it towards. You aren’t sure of anything right now, really, except for the general upset tugging at your stomach.

“L, no, if this is anybody’s fault- it’s mine,” he turns to Roman, and  _ what _ . “I didn’t know how hard you were taking all this. Dude, I had no  _ idea _ . But I owe you an apology, I have for a while, for making fun of you about your insecurity. Like, kind of a lot. Long after you stopped doing it to me. Honestly, I can’t believe that I didn’t realize how much it was actually getting to you.”

“What? Virgil, I truly appreciate what you are trying to do, but I was clearly the one who pushed Roman too far,” you find the courage to step a little closer as you argue Virgil’s point, spurred on by how ridiculous you find this exchange.

“Well, I mocked his sensitivities. This is my responsibility!”

“But you didn’t know you were doing that- I acted like I didn’t care for him, and now he thinks I don’t! I am  _ doubtlessly _ the one to blame.”

Virgil looks ready to snap back, and you’d be just as ready to retort, but a quiet sniffle alerts both of your attention to the matter still at hand. Roman, standing back against the wall, growing increasingly bewildered. He’s still crying, a surprisingly open display for a prideful trait such as himself, but you get the impression that he simply can’t hold it back anymore. You can see him squirm under Virgil’s and your gazes.

“It- It’s nice, that you both are attempting to take the blame for my failings, but you don’t have to. I can figure this out for myself. Then, I’ll finally prove myself to you, and no one will need to worry about anything. Which is why I need to keep working.” 

“You _ have _ proven yourself to me,” Virgil darts from the desk to Roman. He grabs the trait’s ink-stained arm, gaze fierce and unyielding. 

“Why, then,” Roman mutters, eyes downcast, “doesn’t it feel like I have?”

“I never tried to do right by you. Like you did for me.” 

You watch them sway, awkward, and finally,  _ finally _ push movement into your legs. You step to Roman’s other side, much slower. It probably appears to be deliberate, but in truth you just feel unsure. You place your hand on his shoulder in a way that is hopefully comforting.

“The same, in a different sense, is true for myself. But if you would allow us to make it up to you…?” you aren’t sure where to go from there. Virgil nods, though, granting you a hint of pride. You don’t quite buy it when he says he’s part of the problem, but you’d rather not start any arguments at this particular moment. 

Roman won’t look at either of you for longer than a second, like he’s not sure if you’re serious. Just so he knows that you are, you gesture to your necktie, giving him the tiniest smile. 

He buckles to the ground immediately, a mess of sobs, the both of you letting yourself be dragged along. He clings to Virgil, and you try to keep an arm around him as well. He needs all the support he can get, really. 

“I-I’m so so-rry, I don’t- I-” 

Virgil shushes him and shoots you a deeply concerned look:  _ This is really bad. I’m not letting him go _ . You rub Roman’s back as he shakes and return your friend’s gaze with a nod:  _ I’m not either. We’re going to help him. Don’t worry.  _

The three of you sit there for what feels like hours as he cries, and cries, and cries. None of you say a word, letting him get it all out. You let him hold onto you- you hold him as well, because you’re nearly as dismayed and unsure as he is. 

But eventually, you need to talk. Once he finally settles, his head resting against your collar and his legs splayed across Virgil’s lap, it’s you who gets the proverbial ball rolling.

“You already know that overworking yourself leads to exhaustion, which in turn leads to an overall drop in productivity and quality of work,” Roman’s eyes fill with guilt, but you’re quick to elaborate, “but that isn’t at all my primary concern. I won’t carry on acting like it is for a moment longer, now that I see how it’s hurting you. Hurting you is something I would never intend. You mean so much to me. There are so many arguments I could use to convince you why you need to give yourself a break, but I’ll settle with this: a hypothetical ‘perfect story’ is not worth your suffering, and it never will be.” 

Roman looks up at you, once more crying, so that was probably a very unhelpful thing to say. But he leans into you and hugs you close, recontextualizing his emotional display. Relief washes over you. 

“Thank you, Logan.”

Virgil clears his throat.

“I know I’m not as, um,  _ articulate _ as Lo is, but- for what it’s worth- I care about you, too, and all.”

You stretch out the arm that you had around Roman’s back, pulling Virgil into the hug. Roman lets out a shuddering breath from where he’s cradled between the both of you. It’s the deep, relieved breath that means the sobbing is through with, leaving only tired eyes and silence. 

It is at this point of alleviated tension that the uncomfortable nature of the floor begins irking you. Like hell you and Virgil would leave Creativity alone like this, so after brief deliberation you stand to move as a unit. An amoeba of facets making their way down the hall, in a manner likely comical (though thankfully no one is around to see). Your room is the optimal place to rest, as it eases emotions and calms overthinking minds, even if it is a little chilly. 

You let your fellow traits drop down onto the couch, passing Roman the TV remote. Yes, whatever you like to watch, you inform him. Yes, really,  _ anything _ , you confirm, waving your hand to conjure some blankets for them. The smile he gives you, though small, is enough to boost your hopes considerably. 

You really can’t fix everything- at least not immediately. But perhaps, with Virgil to fill in your gaps, you’ll be able to make things right for the Prince. 

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

So looking after this insecure dumbass is totally your job now. Said dumbass, of course, disagrees strongly; he tells you he’s doing better, and thanks so much for the one afternoon of help, Virgil, but he can totally take it from here. You do not give a single shit about what Roman claims, because he is very obviously lying, because he doesn’t want to be a burden. Yeah, as if. 

You’re taking care of that idiot if it kills you.

Thankfully, Logan is on the same page as you ( _ proverbial _ page, as he would specify). It almost surprised you that he didn’t make himself scarce as soon as he told you about the situation, but it’s certainly a pleasant surprise to have him by your side in this. Roman needs all the help he can get, and you can’t think of anyone better.

The pair of you only begrudgingly leave him alone after a sufficient several hours of Comfort Time, retreating to the hall so he can rest. He looked so fuckin’ tired, face a dull red and eyes puffy, but he was smiling. You count it as a temporary win. 

The first thing that you do, naturally, is slam your back against the wall and let yourself slide down to the floor out of sheer emotional exhaustion. 

Logan sits next to you, much less aggressively. It’s a nice gesture, considering how he absolutely despises sitting on the ground and this is the second time he’s had to do it in one day. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He keeps trying to say something, before clamping back down on it. You bump your shoulder against his, telling him that whatever it is, you’re listening. 

“I feel-” which is already a testament to how serious he’s taking the situation- “horrible.”

“Yeah, same- I mean, big mood- no, that’s worse, fuck-” you take a deep breath, hitting your head back against the wall, “ _ I mean _ , me too. So, at least there’s that, right?” 

Logan shoots you one of his patented Microscopic Smiles.

“I suppose that counts for something, yes.” 

You manage a laugh, leaning even more against your friend. You’ve got a whole contradictory bundle of feelings coiled up in your chest, and it sucks, but also it’s a relief, but also it’s the worst thing ever. You exhale slowly, your eyes falling shut. 

“I don’t wanna leave him alone, ya know?”

“I know. We’ve done all we can do for now, though.”

“I guess.”

“I’m just glad he let us help at all.”

“Well, assuming we _did_ help. Who knows, we could’ve made him feel a million times worse by confronting him, and now-”

He cuts off your spiraling immediately. 

“But we didn’t. He clearly needed intervention by that point. Besides, If we’d been making it worse, it’s unlikely he would’ve let us stay for so long. Nor would he have accepted your plan of ‘helping him deal with all this shit from now on, no matter what he says.’”

“Right,” you take another deep breath, “You’re right.”

“I usually am.” 

You elbow Logan in the side, playfully. He smiles again, wider and brighter in a way that most others probably wouldn’t notice. It could, from some angles, in the right lighting, possibly maybe be considered a little bit pretty. Not that you think about things like that, of course, that would just be weird. 

You stop leaning so heavily against Logan, only to find how much your back hurts from sitting in the hall. Come to think of it, the hall might not be the best place to calm down from emotionally charged interactions. The only issue is that your room is literally the exact opposite of a good place to chill out right now, and you’re reluctant to move.

“Hey, uh, would it be okay if I- like, my room isn’t the best for times like this, and I-”

Logan’s already standing, taking your arm to help you up. 

“Come on. I’ll set up the Planetarium for us.” 

“Thanks,” God, you’re thankful for somebody like him. Such a simple word, when you aren’t crazy about spelling out all of the gratitude and nervous tension that lays behind it, and he picks up on the layers perfectly. He gets it- he gets  _ you _ . 

Things will be okay. 

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

Once upon a time (ha), you felt appreciated. Of course you did, else how would you remember it so vividly? How would you long for it so desperately? Yes, you can safely say that you, Roman Sanders, had once been cared for. But that was countless screw-ups ago, before hundreds of your careless insults, your many vicious words followed by weak apologies and unchanging ways. The distant past of a disgraced royal- one far too imperfect, far too  _ cruel  _ to be forgiven without first proving himself time and time again. 

That’s what you’d thought, anyway. When you expressed such beliefs to other sides for the first time, just a few mornings after said sides comforted you in the midst of a breakdown, they told you it was the stupidest thing they’d ever heard. Direct quote from Virgil. 

It was stupid, apparently, because you were forgiven so very long ago, and you are actually considered to be better now than you were then. It shakes you up inside to think about. In a good way, for once. 

They hover around you almost always, offering you plenty more of those somewhat aggressive reassurances whenever you give the vaguest hint of self-deprecation. You were sure they’d brush it under the rug after those first few days, perhaps even tease you about it, but it seemed that was completely false. It’s been a good week. 

They’re with you this very morning, chatting idly while you wait for the kettle to shriek. You let the drone of Logan’s voice wash over you as you finish fixing your tea. You don’t believe all of their reassurances just yet, but God are you trying. You want it to be true- more than you’ve ever wanted  _ anything _ \- when Logan says their care is unconditional, or Virgil says that he likes spending so much time with you. 

You turn around, the mug in your hands warm against your chest, and stare at the sides on the couch. The three of you are in your corner of the Mindscape; they had already invited themselves in when you awoke. You quite like that they do that- you still aren’t sure how to express that you want to be with them, without prompting. You would feel clingy. Greedy.

“Thank you,” you settle down Virgil, smiling groggily. He waves his hand dismissively. 

“Don’t worry about it, man. What’s on the agenda for today?” 

That’s another thing. It’s not all crying and hugging, Lord knows how old that would get- but they just end up hanging out with you. Sometimes it’s just Logan, if Virgil’s having an off day, or sometimes it’s the opposite, when Logan’s particularly busy, but you really like it best when it’s the three of you. 

That didn’t used to be unusual; you used to spend all of your time surrounded by all of your family (or most, in light of recent acceptances), laughing and joking and working all together. Then, slowly, you stopped, just as things became more complicated for everyone. Camaraderie was a waste of valuable time, time that could be used coming up with ideas that would finally be good enough. They got the hint easily enough, allowing you to isolate yourself until you were perfect for them. 

_ No _ , you aren’t thinking about that right now! It isn’t the time to worry about how this will all have to end eventually. You’ll have to think about it soon, but not  _ now _ , dammit!

You swing back a sip of scalding cinnamon tea, letting it clear both your throat and your mind. 

“I have a wonderful idea for today!” You puff your chest out and straighten your back. In actuality, you haven’t had a ‘wonderful’ idea in ages, but you hope the confident stance will give you one. 

It doesn’t. Logan notices this. 

“I sincerely hope that this is not yet another attempt to ‘cure’ your writer’s block and attempt to get ‘back on task’?” he chides you. You falter, letting the regal pose fall away. Logan tells you that what you need is rest. You do not want to rest. But you don’t want to get lectured, either.

“I do not have any ideas for today. Or in general,” you grind out, the second part tacked on bitterly. You don’t look at them, even as Virgil knocks your elbow with his. 

“Good, that means you can come play Scrabble with us.”

The hesitance must show on your face, because Logan sighs and adds:

“I will allow you to use your  _ original _ \- completely nonsense, meaningless, irrational- words, if butchering the English language makes the game more fun for you.” 

Now that. That is a tempting offer. You really would be a fool to pass it up. 

You might as well indulge yourself this much, for however longer they’re willing to let you. It’ll be a nice memory to draw from when you  _ do _ get back to work.

Good God, your ribs hurt. You can’t breathe.

“I’m just saying, you can’t prove that the earth is round,” Virgil claims, staring mischievously across the table at Logan. Logan fumes. It is fucking hysterical.

“That’s ridiculous! Putting aside the  _ overwhelming  _ scientific evidence to the contrary for a moment, you can literally  _ see  _ the curve of the earth on the horizon!” 

“Uhh, it looks pretty flat to me. I’m not buying your government propaganda, Lo,” Virgil’s very clearly trying not to chuckle, and his resolve is impressive. You’ve already been reduced to unintelligible cackling at their interaction. This exchange has brought the progress on the jigsaw puzzle you’d been solving together to a screeching halt, but you couldn’t care less. 

“What do you mean ‘propaganda’?! This is  _ common knowledge _ !”

Virgil cracks, bursting into raucous laughter. He grabs onto your arm as gravelly chuckles escape him, the both of you scrambling to keep upright. Logan narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Unbelievable. Infuriating. Intolerable, the both of you.”

You compose yourself just enough to stick your tongue out at him teasingly, before hunching right back over into your giggle fit.

Then, you notice it as it happens. The aggravated expression etched across Logan’s face  _ shifts _ , but he keeps staring at you. It’s inscrutable, and also weird. 

“What’re  _ you  _ looking at?” you challenge, voice broken up by subsiding laughter. You turn your head to Virgil, as if to say  _ wow, what a nerd, huh? _ , only to find him staring at you with much the same expression. 

“Guys? Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” Anxiety amends.

“I’m sure we were both just caught off guard, is all,” Logic adds, his attention redirected from you to the carpet hastily.

“In a good way, though. It’s nice to see you smile- ugh, that sounds so weird, I just meant- it’s been a long time since you’ve. Done that.”

You blink, taken aback, only to feel the dull ache in your face. You reach a hand up, pressing a finger to the corner of your upturned lips. It really  _ has _ been a while since you’ve laughed like this, hasn’t it? 

A selfish, malicious creature that stalks around in your chest tells you to stop smiling. If you’re happy it means that their job is done, then you’ll be all alone again. Is that what you want, Roman? 

You almost listen to it. Before-

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten what you said just because Roman laughed, V.”

“Nah, you never forget anything, O keeper of memories,” Virgil flicks a puzzle piece at Logan, smirking just enough to show off his sharp teeth. 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he flicks another puzzle piece. Logan’s face twitches in what is either a barely suppressed smile or a grimace, but likely a combination of the two. When Virgil finally aims a piece to hit his face, he snaps, throwing little bits of the jigsaw back at the anxious trait.

“Wow, L, you’re really just throwing away all our progress like that? Tsk, tsk.”

“I will end you,” he lands one smack on Virgil’s nose, earning a hiss. The puzzle continues to be destroyed by their squabble. 

You don’t think you could stop yourself from beaming at them, even if you wanted to. Toothy, confident, amused- oh, how you’ve missed this.

How you’ve  _ all  _ missed this.

It hits you with the swiftness of a bullet, right when you least expect it. You’re just sitting in the living room, idly sketching as you half-watch TV with Patton beside you on the couch. You offer a laugh when he pipes up with a pun based on whatever’s on screen, but your mind is far elsewhere.

You’ve got an idea. A really good one. 

You’ve filled up a page with mindless doodling while the thought was still forming, for fear of jumping on it too suddenly and losing the inspiration, but you find it solid as you continue to mentally examine it. Perhaps a bit overeager, you flip the page, scrawling excited concept sketches across the thick, rough paper. The details flow and evolve in your mind’s eye, and it becomes something of a struggle to hold back your creative aura from infecting the common area. 

That confident smile, one you’ve been wearing more and more often these past few weeks, graces your face once more. The semi-subconscious expression brings a memory from just nights ago: Logan told you that your face was built to wear such a grin (‘Speaking architecturally, of course,’ he cleared his throat awkwardly, ‘The form that you’ve chosen for yourself is suited to it. Objectively.’). 

You find your smiling widening, just as it had when he first told you. 

So caught up in your art, half-listening to Patton, and also vaguely following along with the show he’s watching- you don’t even glance up when Virgil rises up and seats himself at the arm of the couch. It’s the way he huffs a laugh at something Morality says that first catches your attention, and suddenly he’s got all of it. 

“Virgil!” 

He grimaces at the volume, tilting his head to look at you. 

“Something got you excited, Ro?” 

“I’ve got a  _ story _ ! That is to say, I’ve got a _ premise _ , but also characters! Look- it’s- come here, let me show you what I’m drawing, it’s easier than explaining,” you chatter happily, shuffling your way to Virgil’s perch. You hold your sketchbook out to him and jump into explanations.

The drawing is messy, and not nearly finished, but it’s  _ you  _ and it’s good and it’s new. It’s a scene- heavily annotated to explain some of the more abstract concepts in the image- depicting an ent-like creature towering over a young woman, who holds a flower crown up to him. You tell Virgil about the story based around the two, some of the major plot points already planting themselves in your brain. You inform him that it just came to you, and you’ve got so many different ideas for what these two will do, what will happen to them, and how they’ll get out of it all. When you look up from your rambling, all the excitement slips off your face. It’s replaced by awe. 

Virgil is  _ grinning _ , showing a good deal more of his fangs than he usually likes to, enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. You’ve never seen him emote that much  _ ever _ , not for any purpose. You would be lying if you said that those huge chompers weren’t at least a little hot. 

“Okay, I totally wanna hear more, but pause for a sec. I gotta get Lo, ’kay?” And with that, he’s gone as quickly as he arrived, pausing only to toss the sketchbook back to you. You twist around, eyes wide with shock, to find Patton smiling softly at you. 

“You saw that, too, right? Or have I gone mad?” you ask him, earning a chuckle.

“I think Virge is proud of you,” he shuts the TV off as he talks, moving to stand, “I am, too! It sounds really cute!”

“Thank you,” Patton arches up to stretch, tossing the remote down on the couch. “-Er, where are you off to?”

“I think I’ll let you three have the living room, to talk all about your story.” 

“I’d hardly mind if you wanted to hear about it!”

His eyes dart to the side, an awkward smile stretching across his face. His noticeably pink face.

“Oh, I- I was planning on spending some time with Jan today. I was about to take off, anyhow.”

“Aah,” you start sketching again, if only to spare Patton your wolfish grin, “Well, if you’ve already got  _ plans _ .”

He gives you a tiny wave, sinking out immediately. Thus leaving you alone with your thoughts. Fuck. 

It crosses your mind that- now you have an idea to work on, an idea you’re proud of- your slump is over. The creative block has been cured. Logan and Virgil won’t need to coddle you anymore. 

Your hand ghosts over the paper, and for a second you consider tearing it up. Pretending you lost the spark, pretending you need more time and help and companionship. Guilt rises in you at even the thought of being so selfish, the doubts and worries overpowering your former giddiness completely. 

You can’t imagine anything worse than that brilliant smile Virgil gave you turning to disappointment, if you pretended to lose your inspiration. Or the disdain that would surely flash in Logan’s eyes at having his work interrupted for absolutely nothing. Plus, if you did so, what’s to stop them deeming you a lost cause and abandoning you anyway? 

If you’re being honest, you need approval more than anything. And dear God, it is so close. You have to tell them, and hold on to whatever scraps of praise it earns you before the three of you revert back to normal. You’ll fall back into seclusion, as that seems to be one of the few things you’re good at, and they can actually get back to their own existences. 

There’s a  _ whoosh  _ behind you. You spin around, forcing the tension out of your shoulders. 

“Well hello there!”

“I want to hear about your story,” Logan cuts straight to the point. You couldn’t care less about his bland bluntness because he is  _ watching  _ at you in a way so unbearably fond. They both are. You push your reservations down and present him with your sketches, diving into what you’ve come up with so far (plus a few extra points off the top of your head, which isn’t an uncommon method for how you develop plotlines). 

When you’ve finished, not quite as exuberantly as earlier, Logan continues with the theme of  _ surprising the fuck out of you  _ that this day has established. 

He settles a hand on your upper arm, but really he might as well have swept you up in a hug. You blanch, the touch fuzzing up your brain, just like it has been doing so often now and God you don’t want to lose this. 

“I told you so,” he sounds playful.

“What?” you question, vaguely dazed.

“I think that L’s saying we were right about you just needing a break. Seems like the rest cleared up your burnout pretty well,” Virgil loops around to your other side, patting your shoulder awkwardly. 

The euphoria from being touched is broken once you actually manage to process the words.

“Oh! Right, yeah, I'm- I'm so excited to get back to work!”

Logan removes his hand and you burn cold. 

“No, you aren't,” you hear his confusion, like he's trying to unravel why that could possibly be and  _ wow  _ you are not as good an actor as you’d hoped. “What's upsetting you?”

You try to say that it's nothing, but your voice pitches up embarrassingly. You clear your throat, but you can't make yourself maintain eye-contact anymore.

“Dude, you can tell us what's up. Are you just overwhelmed?” Anxiety is worried and caring in a way you didn't know he was capable of and it  _ hurts worse _ because you don't know how to tell him that you're just  _ selfish _ . But you knew this was coming- and you aren't going to make these two waste their concerns on you any longer. The problem has been  _ solved _ , Roman, get that through your skull! 

“I- I suppose I'm just- I’m lamenting the end of this. It’s unimportant.”

“You are upset about the end of your writer's block?” Logan tips his head to the side and gives you a bemused look. Frustration stabs at your skin.

“No! That's a good thing, obviously it's a good thing- I'm saying that I'm going to miss… I mean, I'd gotten used to spending time with you. The both of you,” Virgil's eyebrows shoot up, Logan squints at you, so you backpedal like there's no damn tomorrow.

“See? It was stupid, I know I can't always have all the attention, any-”

“You're right, that  _ is  _ stupid,” Virgil cuts you off with a grumble. You must deflate visibly, though, because his voice softens, “That you think we aren't gonna hang out with you, I mean.”

You feel something. You think it’s hope. It almost feels foreign- unbelievable, even. 

“What?” a murmur, too small and doubting for you to associate with it, though it must be yours. Pathetic.

Logan leans forward, as though he's studying you.  _ Good God _ , who let him be so tall?

“Were you under the impression that we were going to cease contact with you once you resumed productivity?”

“Wha- I mean- when you say it like  _ that  _ it sounds… bad.”

“It would be bad. It would also be incredibly manipulative; being kind to you only so as to get you back in working order, rather than being kind to you to provide genuine help.”

Virgil nods his agreement.

“Yeah, you aren't getting rid of us that easy, Romano.”

You recall the first Big Conversation you had with the two left-brained sides. They'd insisted to help you, despite your lack of understanding in the beginning why they'd do so. Similarly to that talk, this is filling you with an almost painful fondness, almost too much to bear.

“But, you already helped me, just like you said you would!”

“Why did we help you, Roman?” Logan inquires, in a way that makes you feel like you should know the answer. You do not. 

“Because you were worried about me?”

“Why would we be worried?”

“Because you… felt bad for me?”

He groans, tapping Virgil on the shoulder. The anxious facet rolls his eyes.

“You're our  _ friend _ and we  _ care  _ about you, stupid.”

You clear your throat, attempting to say that you knew that (even if that isn’t entirely true), but Logan interrupts you. 

“In case it wasn’t clear  _ why _ , allow us to explain: one, as I’ve stated before and will likely state again, we don’t value you for your ability to create alone.”

“Two,” Virgil cuts in, “You’re, like, fun to be around. Way less stiff than us, and honestly we probably need that.”

“Three, we were never opposed to being around you even before the-  _ this _ . You claimed to like being alone. And I’ll admit I’m not the  _ best  _ with subtext.” 

Virgil looks ready to add a fourth. You don’t let him, waving your hands wildly. If you verbalized what you meant to convey, you’d definitely start sobbing, and that’s just embarrassing. Thankfully, Anxiety seems to pick up what you’re laying down, giving you a moment to collect yourself. You take a few breaths and try to pretend that you aren’t being watched like a hawk.

_ Aaaand _ you’re already crying. That’s probably the point of no return, isn’t it? 

“Ha, and I thought that you two weren’t the sentimental ones,” the effect of your teasing is ruined by how much your voice wavers, “You’re just big softies, aren’t you?”

Logan’s expression is caught somewhere between concern and confusion.

“You are quite literally sobbing? How are we-”

“Shut up,” you retort. The effect is once again ruined when he comfortingly pats your back and you absolutely fall against him. 

“Wow, again? You’re really set on making a habit out of this,” Virgil hovers uncomfortably apart from the set of you, eventually landing on wrapping an arm around you. And it’s so  _ him _ , that you can’t help the little chuckle that breaks through your crying. You really have been doing this a lot more than you’d like lately. 

“I- I’m okay,” you stammer, “I’m  _ good _ \- this is- just- I’m  _ relieved _ . Why am I crying? I’m happy!” 

“It’s alright, man.”

“Yes, take as long as you need.”

You tear yourself away from them, scrubbing at your eyes, but grinning all the same. Your skin burns, you’re shivering, but you’re sick of clinging to them and crying and the desperation that tugs at you. You feel so many things, but there’s one that’s overpowering, one thing that’s so familiar and has been so distant. It’s a blur, a mash, but it goes something like this:

The people you care about, that you work so hard for- they aren’t going anywhere. No conditions. Logan repeats it plenty, Virgil shows it to you quietly, but only now-

Now you believe them. You feel looked after. Cared for. If you’re being bold, you could even say loved. 

You feel secure. 

“ _ Thank you _ ,” for being there, staying there, helping you, everything. You can’t thank them enough for  _ everything _ .

Virgil shrugs. 

“You’re worth it.”


	2. Let It Out, Talk To Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've never been an expert on interpersonal relationships, but you're reasonably sure that you're getting it wrong. Very, very wrong.  
> You may need a second and third opinion on that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN A MONTH LET'S GO GAMERS!  
> My laptop broke and have you ever tried to edit using google docs on your phone??? it's not fun.. But! I have a new computer now and I'm back from my impromptu hiatus!! When I was editing this chapter I was just reading my other fics because, ya know, im a literary genius and all.... lemme tell ya, the first chapter of this Could Totally Be a Standalone platonic analogince thing, if you fancy. I'm giving you this chance to back out now, because this is going to get progressively sadder and more painful over chapters 2 and 3.   
> I mean it's going to have a happy ending I swear but!! before we get there they need to Suffer. I'm really liking how this is turning out tbh.   
> anyway!! Enjoy chapter two, and rest easy with the knowledge that I'll probably have chapter 3 up in less than a whole fuckin' month this time.   
> -WJ

To the best of your knowledge, the three of you are close. To see the facts: you, Roman, and Virgil spend the majority of your time together, partaking in a number of activities that all of you find fun. Comparing your time with them to how much you see, say, a friend like Janus- it becomes apparent that the three of you ought to be considered ‘best friends’. 

However, you had preferred to be 100% certain of this, as you like to be with all things. It was a few weeks after Roman’s New Idea when you finally gave in to this preference (more of a need, really). You asked outright the nature of your dynamic with them.

Roman laughed at you. The abashment you felt was, unfortunately, a very familiar thing.

‘Is the idea of us being best friends really so humorous?’ you challenged, masking the sting you felt with indignation. Virgil had elbowed Roman sharply, explaining to him that you were seriously asking. His laughter stopped at once. ‘Of course we are,’ he’d said. ‘I thought you were kidding, because it seemed so obvious,’ he’d continued. 

All you could manage was a small ‘Oh’. 

So, yes, you’ve determined that your bond is more meaningful than on average. That hardly irks you; it’s a positive thing, in fact. It’s been good for you to have some kind of affection, even if the thought still makes you want to roll your eyes. It’s what’s just beyond that affection that’s causing an itching beneath your skin when the three of you ‘hang out’, as you so often do. That itching, those crawling little mites figuratively burrowed under your skin- it’s all been prevalent in your interactions over the past weeks.

Go over the facts, then, Logan. 

Fact one: You aren’t used to intimate friendships.

Fact two: You have established an intimate friendship with Roman and Virgil

Fact(?) three: Roman and Virgil’s intimacy with each other is quickly turning away from ‘friendship’.

This brings you to the evidence, which gets a little fuzzier; some conclusions might have been jumped to, but you find that irrelevant.

Evidence (?): They share these Looks. A Look when Roman says something abhorrently stupid, but when Virgil jumps to insult him he sounds nothing but adoring. A Look when Virgil comes up with a particularly creative biting remark, and while Roman is just as quick to fire back with a playful tease of his own, there’s that obvious elated expression of pride that he holds just for the anxious trait. 

That on it’s own wouldn’t amount to much, you’ll admit, but you’ve always been a careful observer of body language (out of necessity, given how words fail you when there’s subtext to be found). Their hands brush frequently, to the point where it cannot possibly be incidental. They not-so-subtly lean into each other when they probably think you aren’t looking- though perhaps you shouldn’t be looking anyway. While you are well-accustomed to platonic physical affection in not only your relationships with the two of them, but with all of your ‘coworkers’ (the bulk of it coming from Patton and Remus, predictably), Virgil and Roman’s physical affection exudes such romantic tension that you’re surprised Roman himself isn’t going haywire, because of the overload of feelings that fall into his area of expertise.

Your third piece of evidence comes from just last night. You’d returned from the kitchen, arms loaded with snacks for you all to share, only to find Roman threading his fingers through Virgil’s hair while the embodiment of anxiety carefully sketched on a folded sheet of paper. Virgil’s eyes had flicked up briefly, widening when he saw you as though you hadn’t only left the room for seven minutes and twenty-three seconds.

“Oh, hey,” he greeted with a tiny wave. Something odd and envious and just a bit bitter simmered in your chest, but you denied it whatever it seemed to be hissing for. You gave your friend a nod, setting down the food you’d brought onto the coffee table and seating yourself a good few feet from him and Roman on the couch. 

“V and I got bored waiting,” Roman explained, “So we’re doing a little art collaboration. The rule is that we aren’t allowed to see what the other one draws until it’s done!” He seemed enthusiastic about the game, and Virgil was clearly invested in his work. You saw no reason to interrupt them, quietly deeming your original plan to watch  _ blue planet _ together defunct. But you could still contribute to this new activity! You knew plenty of art history, thankfully.

“There’s actually a name for that- it’s called Exquisite Corpse. The term was coined by surrealist artists in 1925.”

Roman waved his hand, almost dismissive, and your heart- figuratively- sank. 

“Yeah, yeah, in Paris, I already know. Yves Tanguy, Marcel Duchamp, et cetera et cetera. Art’s my whole thing, remember? Do you wanna play or not?”

“Oh, I- I don’t care for drawing,” you have never understood and will likely never understand most forms of visual art. 

Roman shrugged, but before he could respond Virgil was folding up the piece of paper and handing it to him, blank side up. The vigilant trait pushed his bangs back and shook out his shaggy hair, which stuck up at odd angles due to Roman’s tangling.

“Whatever you want, L. You can put on that documentary you were talking about now,” Virgil said, reaching for the food piled up on the table. Your first instinct had been to agree, of course, and get back to the original plan for the day. As you took the remote, however, you couldn’t help but notice just how close they sat, plenty apart from you. It felt like a fitting analogy- and you’ve always had distaste for analogies.

“That’s alright,” a lie, “I’m feeling rather restless now- I think it would be best if I got some work done with this energy,” a half-truth. 

You’d left before they could respond, trying to ignore the envy seething under your skin. It didn’t even make sense- you hated having your hair touched! While the history was interesting, Surrealist art did nothing but frustrate you! You don’t  _ like  _ drawing games, or people’s hands on your face, for goodness’ sake. 

Presently, you stare up at your ceiling and reflect on your friendship, feeling it all start to click. You do not want it to click. You push your glasses up on your forehead and press the heels of your hands against your eyelids, soaking in the ache that results from the pressure. You’re so  _ fucking  _ sick of thinking, thinking, thinking- but the other option is leaving your room- which you’ll have to do very soon anyway- and interacting with other people.

It’s easier to handle with everyone else around to distract you, rather than just Virgil and Roman. Easier, but not  _ easy _ . You groan, pushing yourself into a sitting position and letting your glasses fall back into place. You cannot just stew here forever, much as you’d like to.

Yet- It doesn’t make sense. You don’t want to see Virgil and Roman, sitting as close as they do now, dancing around each other so frustratingly. But you want to be around them so much that you feel you can’t help it, desperate to be caught between them like usual. But, no, you don’t!

You wish they could figure themselves out and actually get together, to save everyone the headache- but is  _ that _ even really what you want? For them to officially be romantically involved, thereby distancing themselves from you even further? And then you’ll truly be the ‘third wheel’, as it were? 

What  _ do _ you want, you ask yourself repeatedly.

For things to go back to normal, you answer yourself. 

You shake your head, no, because what does that even  _ mean _ ? Do you want them to not have feelings for each other, just so they’ll pay more attention to you? Now that doesn’t add up at all, because first and foremost you want them to be happy. Happy, and also spending time with you as much as each other. Yes, that’s closer to the point, you think. You want that closeness to be equal between the three of you, that makes perfect sense. So, logically, it follows that what you want is-

What you want is… 

God, no,  _ God, _ your eyes widen and your fists clench and,  _ fuck _ , you almost shake as you try to hold back the encroaching realization.

_ You want- _

There’s a knock at the door. 

You breathe shakily, your hands tensing and untensing. There’s a knock at the door. The door of your room, because you are in your room, sitting on your bed. You’re here, and now, and you can breathe.

Dazedly, you stand, moving as though you’re wading through honey. You swallow back whatever  _ feelings  _ had been building in you only for the moment. You aren't willing to actually harm yourself by repressing them, merely holding them at the reigns in order to actually function enough to talk to whoever’s come knocking.

You click the door open, pulling it back to see a worried Patton. You are immeasurably relieved that it is him specifically.

“Heya, Kiddo. It’s been a while since any of us saw you today. I was just coming by to let you know we’re about to start picking a movie for tonight. Do ya feel up to joining us?”

That’s something you appreciate about Patton: he keeps in tune with others’ emotions with almost supernatural accuracy. Remarkably high-empathy being a power granted to him by his aspect, he knew when things were off, and he knew when someone did or did not want to talk about it. He didn’t barge up to your room and throw the door open with the enthusiasm he might usually express if he saw how you were uneasy, knowing that such an action could be overwhelming. Rather, he was checking in, quietly offering you an out if you needed it. 

But you’re about to directly contradict yourself about that appreciation! Because this means that  _ you  _ have to decide what you do; because you maybe kind of  _ want _ to be forced to see your friends, rather than forcing  _ yourself _ to avoid them. You aren’t exactly sure you have the strength to be around them on your own, but you can’t imagine a fate worse than isolation in the wake of this emotional discovery that  _ you totally aren’t focusing on right now dammit answer Patton. _

“Yes, I must have been a tad preoccupied today. I’ll be down in a moment,” the answer’s out before you think about it. You regret it, and also you don’t. 

Patton grins warmly at you, obviously relieved, and promises to wait for you to head down before they start. He disappears back through the hall and down the staircase in an instant, humming tunelessly as he walks.

It’s only after arriving downstairs that you become entirely sure that you’ve made the wrong choice. Roman is practically in Virgil’s lap, his head tilted into the facet’s neck while they playfully bicker with each other. When he spots you, his head shoots up, and he waves you over. In an amazing example of self-control, you sit one cushion away from the pair.

Throughout the night, you keep your eyes trained to the screen, trying to ignore however sappy Roman and Virgil get. You need space to think about this issue and find a way to solve it, and  _ they  _ need more space from their little tricycle anyway. 

The movies pass in a blur. You think Virgil tries to say something to you before you go upstairs, but you don’t catch it. Your ears are ringing.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

It’s predictable as hell, considering his semi-self-isolation before The Incident, that Roman is desperate for attention. He’s, in the simplest terms, clingy as fucking fuck. Something that’s mildly less expected than that is just how little you mind it. If you’re honest, with all the hugs and brushes and small comforts, it kinda rocks. Which might be an odd way to describe emotionally and physically intimate friendship, but hey. Shut up. 

You and Roman’ve become a little attached at the hip because of this- though you hold tightly onto the excuse that it’s just cuz you want Roman to get the attention he needs, and totally not because you actually like the affection, too. You know the truth, though. The truth that it all… fulfills something in you, something that’s been craving attention that you didn’t even know about. It’s weird. Not bad, just weird.

You digress; the point is that you and Roman have a Thing With Touching, and that’s not exactly a shocker. Something you’re only recently coming to notice, however, is that this preference is one shared by your other closest friend, Logan. You could’ve sworn he’d be touch averse, and while he definitely has very specific boundaries (he wouldn’t tolerate touches to his hair, neck, or most parts of his legs), he’s exactly the opposite of averse, he’s just way too stubborn to initiate anything or admit it.

Who knew that only knowing a grand total of six other beings for your entire life- most of said beings disliking each other for a good portion of that life- would leave everyone involved more than a little touch-starved? 

Oh well. No time like the present to fix that, you figure. This is all just your long-winded way of saying that whenever you’re in the room with Logic or Creativity, you’re 99% guaranteed to have at least one point of contact with them. 

Which totally wouldn’t be a problem, if you weren’t falling irrevocably in love with both of them. But, unfortunately, you totally are. 

When everything started, it was just Logan. He was too considerate and too goddamn caring not to make you feel things, the bastard. He _understands_ you, almost perfectly, all the time- even though people understanding you completely goes against your aesthetic- and you feel like you get him all the same. In a way, your love for him makes sense. It always has, really, all the way back when he gave you that first glimpse of friendship. It’s always been Logan.

And that all would be horrible enough on its own, but then _Roman_ blind-sided you with his teary eyes and deeply-rooted insecurity. Neither of these are technically ‘attractive’ traits, but dammit if you didn’t find yourself sympathizing to a painful extent. You not only comprehended his (gradually lessening) pain, you’re also surprised to note just how badly you want to help him through it, if only because you knew that you really could help. You can’t bear to watch Roman suffer, because the both of you, despite all the differences, are exactly alike. You find sympathy in his sadness, and affection in his joy. 

It’s disgusting.

The plan was simple; you’d keep all the feelings inside, and then one day you’d die. You’d hold them all at bay and let the infatuation fade to a dull ache against your ribcage, settling into a bittersweet friendship with the two temperamental traits. It’s  _ easy _ to push down when all six of you spend family time together, hell, you hardly break a sweat when it’s just the three of you, because you can just use one to deflect off the other! You are a fucking  _ pro  _ at ignoring your emotions.

Then movie night happened. You have no clue what specifically did happen, but you’ve managed to track the weird behavior back to that evening. Logan was stiff as a board all night, sitting as far as he could from you and Ro. He didn’t even look back at you when you tried to talk to him before he left. He didn’t answer the door when you tried to check on him later. 

To say that Logan hadn’t left his room since would be a gross oversimplification. Oh, he’s venturing out, alright, but  _ strategically _ . He comes down for meals. He comes down when Patton, Remus, or occasionally Janus ask for him, indulging them without complaint. Sure, he’s conveniently busy whenever it’s you or Roman knocking, but he’s already done so much with everybody else that day. No one could be concerned, because clearly Logan wasn’t avoiding anything.

Yeah, bullshit. He’s just diverting everybody else’s suspicions, but  _ you  _ know him too well for that.

He doesn’t work in the commons anymore. He doesn’t rise up in the living room, accompanied with a laptop or a kindle or what have you, just to have the quiet company of someone else while he works. He doesn’t seek you out to explain something he read on Tumblr, and from the looks of it, he doesn’t attempt to infodump about poetry with Roman anymore. And the nail in this coffin is this: when you attempt to confront him, he plays dumb.  _ Logan  _ plays dumb.

Logan avoiding you means two things: 1. one of your most trusted friends who you’re absolutely besotted with won’t talk to you, which is its own special kind of agony- and 2. you spend the majority of your time totally alone with the other friend that you are in love with, which is obviously not ideal.

By this point, you are well-acquainted with the various personal problems of your ‘co-workers’. Statistically, at any given point at least one side is having some kind of an emotional crisis. You figure that it’s best to get a headstart on solving this one, before you can talk yourself out of it. 

But obviously you can’t do it alone.

“Roman.”

The side in question shrieks, spinning around hastily with wide eyes. You don’t even blink, staring him down from the kitchen doorway until he has the sense to stop screaming. He cuts himself off with a cough, clearing his throat and returning to whatever it was that he was doing. After an appropriate awkward silence, he shoots you a sheepish smile. 

“Oh, ha- I- I didn’t see you there, Virgil,” he huffs a tiny laugh, his mouth twitching. It’s such a soft little expression, a bit embarrassed but mostly- Dammit, Virgil, you’re here for a reason! Keep it together, you useless homosexual.

“I guessed that, yeah,” you trudge into the room, lifting yourself up onto the counter beside the stove. “How are you?”

He pauses for a moment. It’s a simple question, but the both of you understand its true significance. You’re expecting an honest, no-nonsense answer as to how he’s been feeling. It’s sort of a system, to help prevent all that bottling up of emotions that you’re all so used to. 

“I suppose I’m… a little out of it. I got rather caught up in sculpting for a good few hours,” as he explains, you notice him absently digging clay out from under his nails, “So I figured it was time for a lunch break.”

“Good,” you tell him, because it’s important that he hears things like that. He’s staring vacantly into the water that’s beginning to bubble on the stove, but you know he will return the check-in question to you in his own time. Technically, you could have just walked in and began with what you really wanted to talk about, but this method gives the conversation a more clear-cut structure. Greeting, followed by question-response, followed by question-response; it’s properly outlined. 

“What’s going on with you, then?”

“I feel like garbage,” you see him blink in surprise, but he waits politely for you to continue. “I’m worried. I mean- I'm usually worried, but in this  _ specific  _ circumstance, I’m worried about-”

“Logan?” He looks up when he says it, his gaze searching. 

“Yeah- um, yes. You noticed it, too?”

“Oh, please,” there's an obnoxious clanging as Roman idly swings around a slotted spoon, “I may not be as  _ observant _ as you nerds, but you could stand to give me some credit.”

You settle him with A Look. He huffs.

“Okay fine! I only caught on when he… ugh, it's  _ embarrassing _ , but we like to write. Together. On Wednesdays. But he’s been  _ ditching _ .”

You already had a hunch about your friends’ little poetry sessions, as neither are particularly subtle about anything, at all, ever. It's super dorky, but it’s a very them thing to do. This development is concerning, to say the least.

“Wait, then why haven’t you brought it up?” 

Roman squirms a bit, clinking his slotted ladle against the stovetop repetitively. You regret the interrogative tone that found its way into your voice.

“I didn't want to be, you know,  _ needy _ . He said he was busy- and like, it was a little sketchy when he was only busy when  _ I  _ wanted to hang out- but- I just assumed he’d maybe gotten bored with it. I didn’t want him to get even  _ more  _ distant with me, so I didn’t say anything.”

Well, okay, you totally fail at not being distracted by  _ that _ . Scooching a little further down the counter, you bump Roman's hip with the side of your foot.

“Hey.”

He doesn't look up. 

“Roman.”

He groans, throwing his head back and glaring up at the cabinets.

“I  _ know _ ! Saying it out loud, alright, I know he wouldn't do something like that- it's just- I forget sometimes, Virge.”

You don't ask him to elaborate. He doesn't need to. He shifts away from the stove and drops his head onto your shoulder, leaning against you. 

“But if you've noticed it too, then something must really be wrong, huh?”

You give a short laugh.

“Yeah. He's upset about something, I can tell. It’s fuzzy, though, that’s the weirdest thing. It's like, I can feel the anxiety from, but it's being overpowered by something else in there. I have no idea what, so it's gotta be out of my jurisdiction.”

He hums curiously. 

“What’s the plan then? Drag him out of his room and make him hang out with us?” Roman's voice rumbles against your shoulder, and it's so comforting that you can't help but hook a leg around his waist to keep him near you.

“Great idea, I'm sure that he’ll  _ really  _ appreciate that,” your sarcasm (hopefully) takes the impact out of your downright cuddly nature. Roman is unfazed.

“That is  _ literally  _ what the both of you did to me mere months ago. I'd say that turned out pretty well, hmm?”

He tilts his head to the side, dragging out the hum with his face pressed against your neck. It's a concerted effort to snark at him instead of purring from the feeling. 

“I doubt that L would appreciate something like that, just because you- Jesus,” you cut yourself off when Roman fucking _ nuzzles you, ew gross _ \- “Oh my fucking God, can you-  _ prrr _ \- can you st _ \- prrrrr-  _ stop for one second? You're- re-  _ rerrrrrr _ \- distracting me!” You push him off of you, feigning disgust. You don’t  _ want  _ to, but you have to at least try to stay on track.

He just chuckles, dropping away from you if only to take his food off the stove. 

“Sorry, sorry, it's just so hard to resist. You’re a kitten!”

“I know you're God-awful at genuine conversations, so I guess I'll let it slide this time.”

You see the offended look spread across his face, and hastily hold a hand up to interrupt.

“Logan.”

“Right, yes. Logan.”

“I mean, what would he say?” you drag your hand down your face, wracking your brain for any of his advice that you could apply to the situation. “He’d be all ‘the logical course of action would simply be to confront me, Virgil, because I am a stubborn little bitch and I will dance around the issue indefinitely,’” You nod, satisfied with both your impression and the conclusion it brought you to. Roman shoots you a comically wide grin.

“That was  _ scary _ , how much you sounded like him.”

You shrug, offering a hum.

“So we should just… what? Walk up to his door, knock knock,‘what’s going on with you, man?’, and see what happens?”

“As crazy as it sounds, maybe this would be easier if we didn't prolong it for three weeks and complicate it like we do with everything else?”

There's a clatter as Roman struggles to reach the top cabinet for a bowl. You drop down from the counter, reach over his head, and hand it to him. 

“When you phrase it like that, I suppose it sounds obvious,” he takes the ceramic and fills it up- without a thanks, the bitch.

“Okay. We do that, then.”

“Okay.”

You hover in the kitchen, watching him grab his meal and begin to walk away. He tosses his head over his shoulder, giving you a look that you can't quite place. 

“Are you just going to wait there while I eat my lunch? We’ll go up in a few minutes, but I'd rather not pass out from lack of blood sugar in the middle of what's sure to be a whole production.”

“Oh- right.”

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

At your knock, there is absolutely no response from the other side of Logan’s door. You knock again- not so much as a footstep! You push down your immediate frustration at the  _ nerve  _ of him, knowing that you must keep your cool (but you  _ also  _ know that he has everyone’s knocks memorized; he knows it’s you!). 

You spare a glance to Virgil. He stares back at you, lip worried between his fangs, hands twisting themselves at his sleeves. He’s slouching so much that he looks nearly as short as you. 

“Is it… is it that bad?” your knuckles are still barely pressing against the inky-blue door, lingering. He nods. 

“ **_Fuck, dude, whatever he’s feeling is intense. But, I can’t figure out what the hell it is_ ** ,” he makes an attempt at whispering, but it sounds more like screeching TV static than anything. 

He’s in there, and Virgil isn’t the only one who can sense it. It’s electric; whatever Virgil isn’t picking up on seems to have fallen into your domain. Unfortunately, it must be one of your non-primary side functions, because you have no idea what the specifics are. You curse the fact that you aren’t nearly as in tune with these things as he, by design, is. 

“ **_We gotta get in there, Roman_ ** .”

The use of your proper name startles you. You grind your teeth, turning his suggestion over in your mind a few times before shaking your head sharply.

“ _ You  _ were the one that said we needed a subtle approach, you- Virgil,” you catch yourself before a nickname slips out, trying to share in his sincerity for the moment.

He gives a shaky sigh.

“ **_I- I know what I said, but- Fuck, Ro, it’s_ ** **bad** **_._ ** ”

Now, it may be just because you’re a contrary bitch, but you have flipped on your original stance as well, leaving the both of you at odds. The worse this feels, the more you need to hesitate. If he’s avoiding you-  _ both of you _ , the mini-him in your head reminds you,  _ mind your mental filtering _ \- then there's a reason for it. A reason to do with anxiety and  _ you _ , which could easily be the ‘passion’ part of you, and that gives the strong implication that he’s deeply angry and hurt. In which case, you know that you could easily do something to make it much worse. You are very good at saying the wrong thing.

And so. You stare blankly at his door. Immobile.

Virgil elbows you.

You wrap your knuckles against the door and send him a glare. He groans, ramming his shoulder into yours.

“ **_Okay, Roman, out of the way-_ ** ”

“I’m getting some bad vibes-”

“ **_Yeah, me too, that's kind of the point!_ ** ”

“Well, there’s no reason to get  _ snippy _ !”

“ **_I don’t need a reason anyway, now move-_ ** ” 

At a light shuffling from behind the door, you both snap your mouths shut. It’s dead silent as you wait, more patient than you've ever been before, as the muffled footsteps draw closer to the door. They stop just short of it, and for a moment you don't breathe.

“I can hear you,” came a muffled, barely-audible rasp. 

You fall against the door at once, pressing the side of your face into its cool surface. Virgil appears beside you, his claws suspended just above the knob. They hover like he’d be burned if he touched it. His voice is carefully measured, and he nearly sounds normal when he speaks.

“ **_L, buddy, can you let us in? Can we talk?_ ** ” 

You nod along, realize that he cannot see you, and then enthusiastically proclaim your agreement with the statement instead.

There's a long pause. You fear that Logan’s left again.

“Is this… necessary?”

“I’d really like to know why you aren't talking to us, so yeah,” you try not to snap, you really do, but you can tell that you’ve failed as soon as the words leave your mouth. You hope he'll understand how you really meant it. 

There's a sigh, and yet another silence. Virgil makes eye-contact with you, face twisted up with concern.

“It was not my intention for you to think me angry with you, if that's what you’re worried about.”

“ **_That’s not it, Lo,_ ** ” well, Virgil can speak for himself, because you  _ were _ kind of worried about that. “ **_I know something's going on. I know you_ ** .”

“Virgil,” his voice sounds much clearer, closer, as though he's pressed against the doorframe like yourself, “Virgil, your voice.”

“ **_Don't know if you can tell, man, but I'm pretty anxious right now. And I know that not all of it is mine._ ** ”

At the next lapse, you don't wait for Logan to speak.

“Specs, hey, listen to me: I don't have a clue what's going on-” you let yourself smile, knowing that he can hear it in your voice, “Which is kind of my usual state, really- but the point is, it doesn't matter. We're here for you, no matter what. The three of us- best friends, right? Bee-eff-effs _. _ ”

“Best friends forever,” he mutters.

“Ah! I’m glad you agree!”

“No- it’s- I was correcting you, abbreviations have no place in verbal conversation-  _ especially  _ in place of simple phrases such as that one.”

“ **_Th_ ** ere he is,” Virgil chuckles, the distortion finally edging out of his throat. 

Logan sighs. You hear a bump.

“I suppose, if you two are really so concerned,” the lock clicks, “Then it would only be hypocritical of me to refuse to speak with you on this matter, given how I encourage you to do the opposite almost constantly,” the knob twists, pushes forwards an inch, halts abruptly, “Although… I can’t promise you full transparency. I don’t- I don’t think I’m quite ready for  _ that _ conversation.”

Well that is ominous. But, then again, progress is progress.

You step back, and the door swings open. 

You fail to stifle your gasp.

Logan stands in the doorway, his head up, spine straight, and his hands behind his back- his usual stance. The posturing does nothing, however, to hide just how bloodshot his eyes are behind his glasses. He trembles, almost, when he looks from you to Virgil, and then back again. As soon as you meet his gaze, he glances down to the carpet, tapping his foot on the floor compulsively. It’s a state you’ve seen him in plenty of times, but the knowledge that this time you were somehow responsible for it pushes daggers under your skin. 

“Well,” he falters, “Come in, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha don't expect the conversation to go well!!!! ***Spoilers*** but not really.  
> I'd really love comments, if you'd be so kind! <3 <3 <3  
> -WJ


	3. What's Funny?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, really, what's so funny? Why are you laughing?  
> On second thought, it was a really bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm Remus shows up in this, because I cannot resist that. Remus uses it/its here, also, cuz hey so do I and they fit the whole vibe :3 (Vibes are a perfectly good reason to use pronouns I'll die on that hill)  
> So much pain?? So much pain. There's a little bit of fluff in the middle because I'm not, like, PURE evil, but that's all ya get until the end.....  
> Settle in for a long one :)  
> -WJ

Now, dramatism isn’t one of your functions, so you like to think that you’re being entirely reasonable when you say that you’d rather die than inform your closest friends that you’ve grown to love them a bit more than platonically. 

And yet, here they are. Sitting on your couch, in your cluttered room, staring up at you with expectation in their eyes. They’re waiting, Logan. You didn’t actually expect to avoid this forever, did you?

Maybe you did, but it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong.

But you digress: you owe them the explanation they came here for. And as you open your mouth to speak, your voice is not nearly as measured as you’d like it to be. 

“As I said before, It was never my intention for you to think I did not  _ want  _ to see you- that is to say, it simply wasn’t feasible, given- well- there were certain  _ complications _ , you see…”

Virgil narrows his eyes, bemusedly, from his contorted position across the arm and top cushion of your couch. 

“What kind of complications?”

You look at the carpet, but it doesn’t offer much visual stimuli. You look up at the ceiling, but the angle makes your neck ache. You settle your eyes on your bookshelf instead, studying the multi-colored covers of novels that span the length of the entire opposite wall. 

“...Complicated ones.”

Virgil snorts, a sound that usually has you thinking about just how adorable he can be, but the sound is devoid of humor in its current form. 

“Care to elaborate, Teach?” Roman inquires, his legs folded comfortably under himself as he watches you. He’s managed to keep himself pretty still and quiet, though you aren’t sure if that’s attributed to his current restraint or the effects of your room.

You push your glasses up on your nose. They fall back to their original position. You repeat this action almost compulsively. 

“It’s foolish-  _ Very  _ foolish. I know this is somewhat hypocritical of me, but I believe it is for the best that I do not burden you with it.”

“You aren’t a burden!” Roman squawks indignantly, in conjunction with Virgil snipping: “We’re well past that, buddy.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassingly enough. You aren’t sure why, but their instant and vehement defensiveness for you is a bit motivating. They… they won’t  _ hate  _ you for it. They might even understand, if you’re willing to be optimistic about this. 

“You could call it. Jealousy, I suppose.”

“Jealousy?” Roman scrunches his nose, uncomprehending.

“Yes- I know it isn’t exactly fair of me to feel this way, but it’s the unfortunate truth. I have noticed that the two of you have become much… closer, than you once were,” you see the two of them flush in embarrassment, which only serves to prove your point. “Rest assured, I’m very happy for the both of you and your bond. It’s just that I’ve realized that I have become essentially irrelevant, which I find to be… upsetting. And I know you both are far too kind and non-communicative to outright tell me this, thus I decided that I would take matters into my own hands by giving the two of you your much-needed space willingly.” 

You do not add that you’re also avoiding them because you can barely stomach being around their PDA. It seems unnecessary, and maybe a tad pathetic.

Virgil recovers from his embarrassment at your calling him out quickly enough, his abashment being engulfed by indignation. Oh, wonderful. They really can’t let up without a fight.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His anger is clear, but all three of you know that he’s only upset at the situation. 

“I would love to remain as your friends, of course, I only meant that it would be best if I didn’t interrupt you two-”

“ _ Interrupt  _ us?!” He’s very near shouting, leaping up from his seat and stalking towards you. He stops less than a foot away, and you try desperately not to recoil from him. 

“Yes,” you sound meek, don’t you? “It only made sense-”

He stares at you as though you’re an idiot. It’s a despicable look, but when you turn your attention to Roman for a reprieve, his expression is no different.

And then they- oh, what they do next brings you more pain than any expression ever could. It starts quiet, like they’re trying to hold it at bay, but their resolves crack and crumble. 

They  _ laugh _ . They’re  _ laughing at you _ . 

You shouldn’t have let them in- not into your room, not into your head, not into your life at all. You should have known that when your genuine emotions came to light, they’d only find it humorous in the end. Because  _ you _ , Logan- Logic, your ‘feelings’- they’re  _ hilarious _ . They are nonsensical and hardly befitting a being such as yourself, yet you have them! And you actually began to  _ speak  _ about them! What a comedic situation. You’re a fool in every sense of the word- both a jester and an idiot. 

They aren’t even laughing that hard, but to you each small sound reads as a raucous, villainous cackle that tears apart your skin and leaves you raw. Roman’s head is tipped back and he appears to be shaking with amusement; Virgil is trying to press his lips together and stifle his chuckling, but he’s doing a poor job of it.

Something writhes in you, much uglier than your shame or guilt. It squirms beneath the layers of your skin and runs up and down your spine, tensing your muscles with its electricity. It’s fury, burning nearly as bright as your face surely must be with this humiliation. 

How  _ could  _ they, _ tricking _ you into caring for them, convincing you to help them and support them, only to then heckle you when you hand them your trust. It was such a fragile thing already- which you know is preposterous, trust isn’t _ tangible _ , but in this moment it feels quite like a cracked window finally shattering to useless shards.

“ _ Out _ .”

Virgil is startled into silence immediately; Roman makes a strangled sort of sound as he stops laughing.

“What?” They chorus, both looking ready to contradict you with drawn out and over-emotional arguments. 

You won’t give them that satisfaction.

“Get. Out. Of my. Room,” your shaking speech is blanketed in monotone; it’s like a towel thrown over a forest fire; it won’t last long.

Their eyes widen comically. They speak all over each other, clamoring to explain or excuse their actions, but to you the pleading is naught but white noise. 

You gave them a chance to leave of their own volition, but if they’re so keen on remaining a nuisance, then fine. You huff a sigh, turning your back to Roman and Virgil. With a snap, their chatter cuts off unceremoniously, and you are left cold and lonely. 

When you turn around, they’re gone.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

You don’t get a chance to react before you’re thrown upwards through the floor of your bedroom. You land in an unceremonious heap, half-on and half-off of your bed, losing your balance almost immediately and toppling to the floor. Rising up makes you dizzy enough as it is, but being forced  _ away  _ from somewhere makes you want to vomit. 

You pull yourself up from the ground, holding your head in your hands until the world stops spinning. As soon as your brain gets working again, you can hear thunderous footfalls out in the hall. They stomp right past your door and down the hall. There’s a series of loud thumps, rattles, and shouts, before whoever it is retraces their steps.

You walk to your door as if on autopilot, opening it just as Roman was about to knock. He’s panting, distressed. 

“We fucked up,” he says.

“Yeah,” you pull him inside, slamming the door behind him, “We  _ did _ .”

“I didn’t mean to, you know that right? I wasn’t laughing at him, I  _ wouldn’t _ , alright?” Roman spirals, “He thinks I did! It was just ridiculous, was all! To think that we don’t want him around- to think-”

He curls into himself. You catch his hand before he can press it against his chest, unfolding him. You hold his wrist and rub little patterns into the back of his hand.

“Ro, hey.”

He glances up at you, wild-eyed. Eyeshadow is already creeping its way down his face.

“Why don’t we talk about this in your room instead, hm?” 

He nods, shaking, with a small mutter of ‘ _ right, right _ ’. You nod back, holding onto him just tight enough that your claws don’t quite dig in. 

You materialize in Roman’s room, dragging him along with you. Almost immediately a fierce pulse of energy overwhelms you. You stagger in shock, but Roman doesn’t even blink at the force. He pulls away from you and falls upon his massive, plush, circular canopy bed with a despairing whine. You can’t really blame him. 

The Creative power of this room takes its effects on you faster than any other side’s abilities could- you really wonder how Roman is so  _ used  _ to it. You sit on the bed beside him, intending to comfort him as he buries himself further into his hoard of pillows. But then, you can’t. You can’t sit down. Far too much troubled excitement is pooling in your stomach; far too many ideas and thoughts are running through your head, and the loudest of them are desperate appeals to start fixing this mess.

Anxiety and Creativity wouldn’t theoretically mix well, but that’s just the thing about theories. They’re often wrong, so very wrong or crackpot or conspiratorial. The truth of it is Creativity and Anxiety work together wonderfully, both as concepts and as actual, metaphysical creatures. You’ve known this, even if you won’t admit it, since you were all teenagers. But only now does it hit you just how much Roman’s abilities can do for you. It takes all of your energy, all that pent-up fear and frustration from what’s just happened, and it gives you the tools to actually use it for something.

It also makes you, ya know. Just a  _ little  _ recklessly confident.

“Alright, Princey, get up.”

He whines again, shifting his head just enough to glare at you.

“I’m  _ wallowing  _ in  _ self-pity _ ! For the reason that one of my  _ dearest friends  _ thinks me a- a bully! How are  _ you  _ not freaking out about this?”

“Honestly?” You wrap your hands around his wrist again, pulling him into a ragdoll-ish sitting position, “I’ve got no idea. Mentally I think I’m in the fifth dimension or some shit, so we gotta work this out quick before I come back down and really lose my mind.”

He grumbles, but you see him biting back an amused smile. Flopping his legs over the edge of the bed and making no movement to stand, Roman narrows his eyes up at you. 

“Alright, alright. We need to give  _ that  _ conversation another go, I know that, but we should give Logan some space first. He’s unlikely to hear us out  _ now _ . You know how headstrong he is when he gets… like this.”

You nod, vacantly, because you're already three steps ahead of where he is in the conversation. 

“Yeah, good point. More time.”

“ _ Right _ ,” Roman draws the word out, looking at you strangely, “So why aren’t you moping with me?”

You pull the reins of your practically palpable energy enough to sit down, right next to him.

“We obviously have to work out  _ this _ -” you gesture between yourself and Roman, “-before we can  _ really  _ talk to Logan,” once the sentence is out of your mouth you wish you could swallow back the ‘obviously’, because Roman is usually slow on the uptake and you’d never intentionally make fun of that. But he does nothing more than scrunch his face up in exaggerated confusion, the pink tint to his face giving away that he must have at least some idea what you’re implying. 

“What- what do you mean by that? The two of us already get along famously!”

“I think you know that’s not what I meant. You’re using your stage voice. You always do that when you lie.”

“Who are you-  _ Janus _ ?” He cough-laughs awkwardly, breaking eye-contact with you. You’re surprised that you’re holding up any better than him, but your strongest reaction at the moment is a mild blush and some prickling at your skin. 

It is for these reasons that you both love and hate Creative-Mode Virgil. He is a very productive and efficient version of you, but his propensity for acting bold and impulsive makes you want to strangle him. Him being you, of course.

“Look, Logan was wrong to think that he was a third wheel, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure he  _ was  _ right about the… closeness with us, I guess.”

Roman’s staring at you with wide eyes, a deep red flushing him from his ears right across his nose and cheeks. He’s clearly trying to smile, but it’s coming out awkwardly strained, almost twisted sideways. There’s a second when the anxiety rushes back to you in a wave of  _ oh no you misread this so fucking bad of course he doesn’t feel that way about you you’re his best friend whatthehellwereyouthinkingVirgil _ \- and it almost wins you over, but you’re in  _ Roman’s Room _ . And that doesn’t just mean motivation and creativity. 

Your paranoid thoughts could never beat what’s ingrained into you as a fact. You can  _ feel  _ the romantic tension, almost like it’s a physical presence in the room. Maybe it is. A part of you- most of you, in fact- still wants to convince you that you’re doing something wrong. But it’s getting harder and harder to believe the longer you sit here, knowing that these emotions you feel aren't entirely your own. 

“Virgil,” he breathes, and you can feel it on your skin- when did you get so close?

“We don’t have to do anything about this,” you start to backpedal, but you don’t move away from him, “Not if you don’t want to, yet. I just… we had to talk about it, I think.”

“So you…?”

The hesitance in his voice destroys your resolve. You reach out, tucking up both of his hands in your own. 

They’re warm. 

“Yeah, I- yeah.”

He surveys you for far too long; it’s hard not to squirm. You let him watch you, though, just so he can find whatever it is he’s looking for in your expression. When he does, it only draws him in nearer.

“You and Logan are right. I love you, V.” 

You try not to smile. It doesn’t work. 

“I figured.”

He huffs at you, shoving you, but he’s grinning widely. You roll your eyes at him. You don’t speak for a while, holding your tongue for as long as you can- but you really need to say it. Just so he  _ knows _ .

“I love you back, though. Or- something like that, I don’t know…”

Roman laughs outright at that, tossing his head back. You can already feel the energy you were given twisting into an entirely contradictory exhaustion. Because of that, you don’t even try to pretend to be annoyed; you just watch, fondly. 

When he’s settled, that amused look turns sharply to worry. 

“So now what?”

You pause, running your thumb over his knuckles as you think the question over. 

“Logan?” 

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, like you said, we give him some space.”

“And then?”

You glance up at Roman for confirmation, but you don’t need to. Like you said, you can feel it; his room is a pretty big snitch. 

“We tell him we love him.” 

You let yourself forget about what happened, just for the afternoon. It’s hard, but what choice do you have? It’s out of your hands for now. And, while usually that makes you even more nervous, you manage to force yourself into the shape of something vaguely undaunted. After all, if you can’t tell Logan just how much you care about him, you can still remind Roman. 

In your own way, of course. 

“Hey,” you mutter, for what must be the millionth time that evening. Roman turns his attention away from the vent-art he’s working on, glancing at you.

“Yes, Knightmare?” He asks, but the tired and affectionate smile on his face says that he already knows your game. Damn, and here you were thinking you were subtle. (not.)

“Mmh,” you press your face into the side of his neck, leaving a few miniscule kisses to the skin there. Your arms are twined around his waist, a position that bordered on- oh, who are you kidding, it’s  _ exceptionally _ clingy.

The embarrassment that you feel from so openly displaying such sappy, disgusting affection is overturned, however slightly, by the quiet laugh and kiss to the top of your head that Roman returns to you for your efforts. You hide your smile in the crook of his neck.

You continue to shower Roman with attention for a minute or so, covering his face with little pecks and pressing yourself against him, before leaning back a few inches. You sigh. He resumes his work, resting his back against your chest as he does so. 

You will let him continue to draw for ten or so minutes. You will ask for his attention again, and he’ll give it to you with a slightly wider smile than the last time you did it- that smile grows exponentially, but only by tiny increments.

You’ll kiss him all up his neck and the side of his face, hug him even tighter, listening to him laugh in a much too relieved voice before you let up once more.

And he’ll be a little more sure of you each time. A little more sure that you two can do this together. 

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

You are not a patient entity when it comes to the things you want. You are, in the best of cases, the exact opposite. This gets about One Million Billion times worse when the one thing that you want is to declare your love for someone, and said someone hasn’t left his room even once in six days.

Virgil, Patton, and Janus (once you’d relayed the situation to the latter two) have essentially been keeping you on a leash at all times of the day- or night- to make absolutely sure that you don’t break Logan’s door down. Which- to be fair- you wouldn’t put it past yourself to do that, but still. 

But even with the distraction of a new boyfriend (boyfriend!!!!) and those two overbearingly caring friends of yours, you are still Physically Unable to Not Do Anything currently. And, you suppose if you can’t break _ Logan’s _ door down, you might as well try that idea out on someone who wouldn’t bat an eye at such an, ah,  _ intrusion _ seems to be the fitting word. 

“ _ Uurghhhhh _ !”

You drop yourself face first onto Remus’ bed in your usual melodramatic fashion, immediately regretting it because  _ fuck  _ that smells horrid. When was the last time it washed its sheets?

Probably never, actually. You sit up.

Your sibling is sitting cross-legged on its desk, working on  _ something  _ that’s got a good deal of goop and limbs. It looks up at you blankly. 

“Ro? What the hell are you doing in here?” It doesn’t sound angry, just very, very surprised. 

“My life is ending.”

“Fun! Does that mean I get full creative control?”

“No! And it’s not  _ fun _ , you animal!” 

It scrutinizes you, setting its strange arthropodic creation down on the desk. You lean back when it leans forwards.

“Wow, shit must be  _ really  _ bad if you’ve decided to come  _ here _ !”

You nod, miserably. 

“Okay,” it claps its hands together, standing up only to fall against the bed beside you. It’s half-sitting, half-laying; the way it twists all its limbs up can  _ not  _ be comfortable. “What’s going on?”

You glare at it, but you aren’t sure why. Probably just because it is there and you need something to glare at while you talk. 

“It’s Logan…” You trail off, waiting for Remus to catch on. It takes its time thinking, even more expressionless than before. 

“You know why he hasn’t left his room in days? I tried to check on him but he barely told me anything. Just said he was tired, and ‘thanks for the concern’,” it says at last, catching you off-guard.

“You mean you haven’t heard? I would’ve thought Patton or Janus might have told you.”

It taps its claw to its chin a couple of times, thoughtful. The implication clicks just a second later, apparently, because it lets out a whining groan and drags its hands down its face.

“Oh, not that. I can’t do anything if it’s  _ that _ !” It exclaims, “Yeah, they  _ did  _ mention it, but I guess I just tune that kind of thing out,” it pauses, “...It’s because you and Vee are fucking now, right?”

You flush, embarrassment and indignation welling up at the back of your throat. You bat Remus’ shoulder, bristly as a thornbush.

“ _ No _ , we aren’t- I mean, not yet- I  _ mean _ , that’s none of your business!”

“You did kinda come to me for help, though, so it actually  _ is _ .”

You glower, refusing to justify that with a response. It rolls its eyes at you, turning over so that it’s flat on its back with its upper half hanging off the bed.

“It’s your bad to come to me for  _ romance advice _ . You couldn’t have asked literally anyone else- yourself, for example?” It fusses with its talons as it rants, snapping off a couple of nails absentmindedly, “It’s not even the fun kind of gross.”

You can’t believe you’re considering saying it. You won’t! You shouldn’t! You refuse!

“...Please?” Oh fuck, you’ve done it now.

Remus pulls its head up slightly, a very smug grin across its face. Its teeth are horrendously crooked and yellow-stained, looking much too big and sharp to fit into its mouth. 

“Awww, you’re begging? God, you’re so desperate.”

It’s very difficult to resist the urge to push it off the bed. But you are a pillar of restraint today, because it’s not entirely  _ wrong  _ about that, and you still need it to help you.

“Look, it’s too personal to my own life for my abilities to do me any good. And Virgil can’t talk about it- he’s way too frazzled to even think about it, the poor thing. Plus, Patton and Janus aren’t… great… at things,” that’s a very soft way of putting: the former gets  _ much  _ too emotionally invested and the latter is entirely snarky and unhelpful. “So I came here. I think a more, erm,  _ detached  _ point of view could help.”

Remus hums at that. 

“I guess there’s nothing more detached from romantic issues than someone who’s never had any- you’ve come to the right place in  _ that  _ case.”

“So you’ll help?” 

Remus slides slowly forward until it’s landing in a heap on the ground, various crunching noises resulting from the impact. It huffs, lifts itself up to rest its chin on the edge of the bed, and stares at you unblinkingly.

“You’re not allowed to tangent about how  _ pretty  _ his eyes are or how much you  _ love  _ his voice, or anything like that, got it? Otherwise, I  _ will  _ puke, and probably into your mouth just to shut you up.”

You gag, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly.

“That’s vile!”

“Thank you! Now, bitch to me about your problems before I get bored.”

You look down to your lap, winding and unwinding your fingers repetitiously. You think about the past couple of days; in many aspects, it’s been wonderful. Virgil actually wants to be your boyfriend! And that’s what he is now! Of course, you both are just as cuddly as ever, but now you don’t have to worry about holding back. That’s been an amazing relief.

But there’s always that little thing missing, holding you back from being content completely. You want to give Logan his space, truly you do, but every day you feel a little more distant from him. A little further from being able to fix things. It’s familiar in all the worst ways.

You blink rapidly, remembering where you are before the emotions overcome you. With a shaky breath, you begin to speak. It’s just a summary at first, but then you can’t help but give Remus your most detailed accounts of, well, everything. 

You gauge its reaction intensely, but it’s as inscrutable as ever. You finish the tale hurriedly, expectant for some sort of response from the creature across from you.

There is an intolerable silence as you practically see the gears turning in Remus’ brain, which is funny because you thought Octopuses were supposed to have nine of them. You have no idea what it’s using all the other ones for, if that’s the case.

“You laughed at him,” it smirks when it speaks, sounding out the words slowly. You scoff.

“We were laughing at the situation! We didn’t mean it to seem that way. It was just bad timing! ”

It cackles at you, sitting back on its legs and tossing its head back. It sounds like a shrieking kettle.

“No wonder he’s so pissed! He thinks you think his feelings are a joke! His whole deal is  _ not  _ wanting to be that. That’s, like, his big thing.”

You’d… sort of figured that’s what happened, but hearing it out loud still stings. To think you’d done that to him. He was getting so much better with his feelings, but you had to go and ruin it. 

“I already know that I-  _ we _ -” mental filtering, Roman, “ _ We  _ caused the issue. I wanted to know how to fix it.”

Remus stops laughing as suddenly as it’d started, looking at you with all the sincerity of, perhaps, someone capable of being serious. 

“Corner him,” it answers simply.

“Excuse me?”

“Corner him. Your first mistake was that you went to him in his room, which meant he could just throw you out of there. He’s stubborn, right? Plus, he thinks you were making fun of him. He’s not gonna come out to have a civilized conversation on his own, cuz he’s a dumbass, so I don’t think more space is gonna help you out here. Lure him out! Tie him up, if it’ll make him listen!” Remus pauses thoughtfully, “ _ Orrrrr _ you could try amputating his legs entirely, but he’ll probably grow them back. He’s annoying like that.”

You choose to ignore the last suggestion, focusing instead on its main point. 

“Are you sure that won’t make things worse?”

“Define ‘worse’ for me, in terms of right now, currently, in here on this day.”

“Good point.”

Remus nods to itself, standing up from the floor and stretching its arms above its head. Its shoulders dislocate, but it pops them back into socket once its done. This almost feels like the conclusion of the conversation, but you get the impression that it’s taking its time to piece together a sentence with a little more finality.

“He was obviously crazy about you two before, which means he probably still is. He’s also a sad little shit, though.”

You move to stand as well, curling your fingers against themselves again.

“You really think so?”

“Oh, I have no idea. That’s your department, remember? Now, get out of my room; no alloromantics allowed after-” it checks the time, clearly making the rule up on the spot, “Five twenty-six P.M.” 

“Fine,  _ fine _ , I can take a hint,” you place your hands on your hips, feeling just a little more confident in the wake of this talk.

“‘Hint’? I explicitly told you to leave.”

You grumble at Remus, but make your way to the door nonetheless. It turns back to its desk, grabbing for a jar that seems to be filled with insect legs. It’s immediately refocused into whatever strange creatures it was working on, pulling them apart and shoving them back together. You let the affronted look fall from your face, replaced by a small, fond smile.

“Thanks, Re.”

It glances back at you, briefly.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing…” it pauses, its hands stilling. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” you say, earnestly.

You leave, letting it get back to its work. 

The hallway smells like a fucking Macy’s compared to Remus’ room. Jesus  _ Christ _ , it’s a relief. 

You shut the door behind you with a soft click, leaning back against it with a deep, shuddering sigh. It’s been a _ long _ week. 

Ah, and just on time, as if to prove your point, there’s a gravelly shout and a thump from downstairs. You draw yourself to attention, shaking the slump from your shoulders. You flit through the narrow hall to the top of the stairs, listening carefully for an issue to resolve or an unseemly beast to slay. A prince must protect his subjects, after all.

For a few seconds, all you can hear below is frantic whispering. You set a foot on the top step, but you don’t get the chance to descend.

Virgil is there like a flash of lightning, speeding up the stairs and heading right for you. 

You startle, spiraling back to escape his path, but it’s futile. He catches you at the top, sending you both crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shoots up your back at the impact, as well as sparking in your shoulders where his claws are gripping you. You hiss, the sound dying when you meet his eyes. 

They’re bright. No, glowing. No,  _ seeping _ \- their color is seeping into the world around them, curling in little streaks of murky green and violet around Virgil’s face. 

He speaks, but it’s without distortion. It’s clear and crisp. It isn’t quite anxiety that’s consuming him this way, no, it’s something much more powerful.

“Roman,” he takes your hand in a fervent grip, “Ro, _ it’s Logan. _ ”

You blink, and before you really know what you’re doing, you're already halfway downstairs.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>

Light, sparse taps are turned out against the solid wood door. The sounds, however small, echo throughout this packed little room.

Your fingers stall above the laptop’s keyboard, and for a fraction of a second frustration overcomes you. It’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced unceremoniously by numbness. This is a minor inconvenience to your work, but not much else. Thankfully, you are not one to dwell on it; after all this time, you are finally in complete control of your faculties and your emotions. 

The knock returns, more sure of itself as it hits against the surface. Bemusedly, you wonder why on earth  _ they’re _ still bothering- but, that isn’t them, it belatedly occurs to you. The rhythm isn’t that of some showtune or another, nor is it harsh and pounding.

You aren’t sure how many days it’s been since you’ve heard that particular sound. You aren’t sure… What day  _ is  _ it?

Well, regardless, you’ve been jarred from your work. You  _ could _ ignore it and continue on- you’d likely forget it soon enough- but the fact that you recognize the presence specifically as Patton stops that idea in its tracks. He’s sensitive, an overthinker to an extreme degree. He could entirely misconstrue it as a dislike of his company if you were to not respond, unlike a flippant Remus or a collected Janus. And, well…

You’re over it. You’ve  _ been  _ over what Roman and Virgil did to you. But even though you very much are, it’s still perfectly reasonable to not want to be near them. There would be nothing to gain from talking to them, and you’d like to spare yourself the headache. But, you digress; Patton was not a part of what transpired. He would not do that to you, and therefore he is not an impediment to your work. Looking at it rationally, he is in fact a great source of comfo-  _ help _ , for you. 

With this in mind you stand, making your way across the room. You stagger when you walk, like something’s pulling you in different directions. Odd. The feeling is somewhere in your head, sinking down your vertebrae, insisting that you need to remain in the sanctity of your room. If you leave, the pull suggests, then all your carefully built clarity of mind should become disrupted. How strange for such a convincing conviction to be so seemingly baseless, you reflect.

The knock returns, and that is of course a much more pressing issue. There’s a pull coming from there as well, only one much fiercer and easier to place. It’s the strongest thing you’ve experienced in some time, like someone’s arm around your waist, guiding you forwards (even if there isn’t anyone there,  _ really _ ). 

“Good afternoon,” you intone, drawing the door open with excessive force. Strange, again; maybe you had just forgotten how heavy it was. 

Patton stands across from you, shock written across his features with his fist still poised in the air, as though to knock again. He drops the hand quickly, reaching out instead with both arms while a grin consumes his face. But the limbs spasm concerningly, and stop. He sweeps his arms back and presses his balled hands tightly against his chest, still smiling at you, only a little more strained. His eyes are big, murky pools of color and emotion, raging and contradictory and impossible to make sense of. Even looking into them is overwhelming. 

“Hi, buddy,” he says it so quietly, but the actual words don’t matter. He says it with  _ force _ , like perhaps he’s localized every emotion he’s ever felt entirely into his tone of voice.

You blink at him, an undefined question on your lips before that pull behind you turns into a sharp  _ push _ , and before you know it you’re slumping forward into the hallway and out of your room. As you’re forced out, you narrowly avoid hitting the carpet. That’s thanks to Patton, who rushes forwards with a yelp, hauling you up into his sturdy arms with very little effort. 

The confusion you’d felt leaves you in a great big rush, replaced by  _ fire.  _ Your skin is consumed by burns at your friend’s touch- or at least it  _ feels  _ that way, but logically it cannot possibly be actual flame- but  _ fuck logic because you’re on fucking fire _ .

It’s an all-consuming heat, but that’s hardly all it is. It’s breathing. Like you’d been holding your breath to the point of mad deliria and only now are you gasping in great, relieved breaths of clear air as some great and stifling weight is lifted from your lungs. It also feels like moving from an ice bath to a sauna all too quickly, giving you the greatest relief in conjunction with horrific pain. 

Oh. You’re crying. 

“Shh,” Patton whispers, as though this isn’t anything out of the ordinary, “It’s okay, it’s alright.”

You hold onto him hesitantly. Are you sitting? You think you must be, judging from this position.

“Do you need me to let go? Is it too much?”

You open your mouth to speak, and your voice is in perfect, frightening monotone.

“Yes, please.”

Patton draws back gently, just far enough so that you’re not touching. Big, crocodile tears crawl down your face still, but they begin to die down after a moment. You get your breathing under control, even if just barely.

“I didn’t want you to fall and get hurt,” Patton explains, “But I realize that making you touch a living vessel for emotion might’ve hurt, too, after- well, after  _ that _ ,” he gestures vaguely to your room, and then to yourself. You tilt your head in confusion.

“What-?” You look down at your arms, and the question dies on your lips.

It’s lifeless; corpse-like. The cold, slate-gray painted up your arms and probably across your whole body. The color looks sucked out of you, leaving only emptiness in its wake. The only sign that you’re a living being and not a husk, a shell, a piece of shed skin- other than the tremble of your frame- is the shocks of electric blue running up your body. They could be veins, if not for the fact that the lines were perfectly straight and geometrically cornered.

Patton reaches out, pensively, and presses a cautious finger against the back of your hand. At his touch, the spot bursts into life like watercolor on wet paper. Lively, peachy skin with cool undertones appears, before fading back to gray as Patton removes his finger. And it  _ stings _ . 

You jump to your feet with a struggle, hardly registering when Patton follows your lead. You spin on your heel, staring through the open door and into your room. You can’t imagine entering it- just the feeling of being near it shortens your breath. It’s  _ frigid _ , it’s hard and unshakeable and dark. It is completely and entirely devoid of emotion or life, and you hadn’t left that frozen hellscape in  _ days _ .

It’s a wonder you can feel anything at all, after what you’ve done to yourself.

A shaking gasp rips out of your throat, and before you can think another panicked thought you jolt forward and wrench the door shut. You back away from it until your back hits the opposite wall.

“I- I didn’t realize I was doing it,” your words sound like pleas, falling from your mouth without your consent.

“I know,” Patton stands beside you, close enough to feel but not to burn.

“I didn’t  _ mean  _ to, I just-”

“I know.”

“I was doing  _ better _ . I was doing so well, I was  _ happy _ .”

He nods solemnly. 

You’ve been aware of the existence of your emotions, and relatively accepting of it, for a good deal of time. Hypocrisy is unsustainable. You can’t very well preach the negatives of repression on a weekly basis and then go on to practice it indefinitely. 

But what you are… everything that you encompass, everything that encompasses  _ you _ , it makes it much too easy to slip up. To force out every pesky feeling in favor of more ‘important’ things. What it really is is a pitiful defense mechanism, unfortunately built deep into you by the purpose of your being. And it seems that your room can even do it without your knowledge.

“Logan?”

You look up, unsure if he can even see how miserable you are. Can you emote anymore? You try to frown, but your muscles are stuck like plastic.

“Why don’t we get you somewhere else and see if we can get some of the feeling back into ya, okay?”

You adjust your glasses once, then twice.

“Not your room, I would hope?”

“Oh, goodness,” he lets out a startled laugh, “Of course not, that would be way too much! I was thinking somewhere a little more, uhm, neutral?”

You perk up at that implication. You could just go to the common room, of course, but that’s hardly the only unaffected area in the Mindpalace. Your world isn’t quite real- and even if it is it’s extremely fluid and easy to influence- meaning you can make about just as many locations as any of you would like. Which includes structures ‘outside’ of your ‘house’.

An ill-defined existence like that might irk you, if you were in a philosophical mood. Thankfully, the only mood you’re in right now is sad. 

“Yes, I think a change of setting could be beneficial.”

Patton chirps happily, much like a tree frog, and makes to lead you downstairs. You follow close behind him, chasing that emotional high but still nervous of the pain that it could cause you. 

You’re on edge for reasons enough already. The idea that you could run into  _ them  _ is a prominent one that you’d rather not focus on. 

For a split second you think you might have to, though, because there’s someone sitting on the couch when you step down from the landing. Your breath catches in your throat, but then he looks up at you, heterochromic eyes wide with surprise, and you exhale steadily. 

“Hello, Janus.”

His eyebrows arch up at your greeting, perplexion in his smile. Appraisingly, he observes you, offering only a small wave. He addresses Patton when he speaks. 

“Well, Dear, it seems you were right to be concerned about him.”

Patton mutters something that you can’t quite make out, looking disconcerted. 

You’d be flushing indignantly, if you had the ability to. Your shoulders hunch up as you glance between your friends.

“You’ve been talking about me?” 

They both look acutely uncomfortable, exchanging looks. That’s answer enough for you, though. 

Oh, just look at yourself. You’re a  _ spectacle  _ now, aren’t you? Poor Logan, getting his metaphorical metaphysical heart broken, only for it to become the talk of the MindPalace for days on end as he relapses into repression. Isn’t it such a lovely thing for you to be? A piece of gossip.  _ Entertainment _ .

Janus’ worry grows on his face, and soon he’s up from his spot and hastening towards you. You step back from him, trying to remember what glaring is meant to look like. He doesn’t invade your space again, but he just… stares at you. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks. You can almost laugh at the question. 

“I’m sure you already know all about it, though, don’t you?”

Both of them are taken aback by your snapping. You regret it immediately;  _ they  _ haven’t done anything wrong, not really. They’re trying to help you, it isn’t their fault that they got caught up in your ‘tragic tale’. But your frustration is difficult to push down. You get the feeling that you can’t push anything down, without worrying that something will snap; it’s almost like an overworked muscle. 

“Whatever you think has been happening out here,” Janus speaks, even and slow, “It’s not that bad, alright?”

Patton nods along with him, and reaches towards you. He falters, eventually opting to hook a finger through the band of your watch instead. Your skin prickles, but there’s no pain. 

“C’mon, I was thinking we could try heading to the Clubhouse.”

That settles your anger, microscopically. You think Janus is being truthful, and Patton is nothing but consoling. And, of course, there’s the clubhouse…

You might not ever admit how much you like it. It’s been around since before you were around, back in the days of just Anxiety (the oldest), Creativities (tied for second), and a very newly formed Morality. Back when it was first made, it really  _ was  _ just a little child’s clubhouse, made primarily by Roman, with some disruptions by Remus, and small additions by a tiny Patton. It was probably the first neutral structure made up by the sides, as they had just begun to figure out their powers and the ‘world’ that they inhabited. Of course no one had the heart to get rid of it after that.

You give Patton a nod, angling your face so that it maybe looks like you’re smiling. He lets go of you, smiling back as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. You trail behind him, knowing that it must look very silly that you’re basically tailgating him. Janus follows you in turn, a few feet behind. He watches over the both of you protectively. 

You step out onto the lawn, hearing grass crunch beneath your shoes. The wind is particularly biting, and the sky above threatens a storm. You’re sure that the weather in the real world isn’t this chaotic, so someone in the mindscape must be sulking. You don’t mind; it’ll only make the warmth of the Clubhouse all the more pleasant. 

The Clubhouse has changed so much over the years that it’s unrecognizable as its original iteration. What once was a little stick-and-stone glorified fairy house is now a cottage-like building, one story high with a thickly thatched roof. Beside the door on either side are big bay windows, each made into little reading nooks. It’s essentially one big room, the outside painted with such vibrant pastels that it easily stands out against its surroundings.

The doors creak when Patton opens them, but not in a way that denotes damage or wear. It’s an old and comforting sound, one that comes from familiarity and consistent use. You step through the threshold, and affection floods your chest.

It isn’t large, but it’s well-equipped. There are ancient oaken tables stacked up with crafts materials, squashy bean bag chairs, and a bright rug or two thrown over the rustic hardwood floors. The nooks have pillows and blankets piled in them, looking like nests. There are bookshelves, art supplies, vinyl records (complete with a record player)- even some new-looking wall displays of preserved bugs and butterflies for decoration. To top it all off, fairy lights were strung across all the walls, making it all seem quite mystic. 

You find yourself taking another step inwards; the amenities are incredibly inviting.  _ Everything _ here is inviting, and homey, and lived-in. The house itself almost feels alive, nonsensical as that is.

It’s no wonder this is everyone’s favorite.

Patton watches you patiently, his hand resting on the door handle. You take a deep breath, but you aren’t sure why you need it. You make your way to the perfume-y, floral print sofa against the wall to your right, treating everything around you rather reverently. When you sit, you sink down into the couch.

Patton sits a respectful distance from you. Janus strolls right after him, knocking the door shut with the back of his boot before settling in an armchair on the left of the couch.

There’s a comfortable silence, and you start to feel your numbness abate. With a contented sigh, your head falls back against the cushion and your eyes fall shut. Not in an effort to sleep. You’re just… resting. You breathe deeply, letting the atmosphere envelop you.

The corners of your mouth twitch up.

“Logan!” Patton squeaks, “Look!”

Your eyes blink open, mildly startled at the outburst. Patton’s gaze on you is intense, first focused on your face and then moving down your arms. You follow the look, to see your...

Your perfectly normal, flesh-colored arms. Your human-ish, mildly tan, average arms. You feel what you can now recognize as a smile grow wider on your face. 

“Well,” Janus chimes, “It seems you just needed a little break.”

“Maybe so,” your voice creaks from lack of use. You hadn’t even realized you’d been nonverbal since you’d last snapped at them. Neither had drawn attention to it, which you silently thank them for (they, after all, were all too familiar with the experience). 

“Do you feel good enough to talk about what’s been upsetting you?” Patton gently asks you. And you… don’t have an answer.

“What is there to talk about?” You tilt your head bemusedly. 

“I think he means, are you ready to talk to  _ who’s  _ been upsetting you?” Janus explains. Patton hesitates before nodding his agreement.

“I- _what_?” Your serenity leaves in a rush, replaced by astonishment and outrage, “You expect me to- to _talk to_ _them_?”

You give them approximately three seconds to respond before plowing forwards with your rant.

“I’m talking to you both, isn’t that enough? You’ve done nothing to wrong me, of course. What does it matter if I don’t speak to those- those-  _ those _ -”

Janus’ eyes expand to circles, the pupils shrinking to anxious slits.

“Those?” He prompts.

“ _ Tricksters _ , betrayers, playactors,  _ wolves _ \- whatever you want to call them!” Where were vocab cards when you needed them? All your synonyms can’t carry the punch that you need them to. Insults aren’t much good if you have to explain them after. 

“No!” Patton practically screams, out of absolutely nowhere. You glance at him, stunned, to see him looking like a kicked puppy- er, froggy. He’s on the verge of tears, leaning towards you precariously, with devastation swirling in his big eyes. “ _ This  _ is why you need to talk to them,  _ please,  _ Logan.”

You are so very bewildered, you barely notice that Janus is standing from his chair until he’s already across the room. 

“As I said earlier: whatever you  _ think  _ happened, didn't. I can prove it, too,” he mutters, standing by the door.

“You weren't there, Janus,” you snap,“I tried to tell them how I felt and they- they laughed at me.”

“They  _ didn't! _ ” Patton squeaks. You shake your head frantically, still reeling.

“It was- it was awful, you can’t-”

“No,” Patton interrupts, “I meant that  _ literally _ . They didn’t do that.”

This interaction is making your head spin with indignation. You are capable of immense patience when it comes to Patton- and Janus, for that matter- but this has become ridiculous. 

“I’m so  _ tired _ of being made a mockery of, Patton. I won’t stand for it any longer, even if you’re just trying to help.”

He breathes in sharply, about to argue, but then his gaze catches on something behind you. His mouth stays open, but he’s soundless. You jump to your feet, spinning around to see just what he’s looking at.

The door is open. Janus is gone.

There's a shout from the main house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen ok I PROMISE the ending will be happy and they will all be in love ok? i promise don't worry.  
> So I rewrote the scene but I originally wanted to have Remus see Numb!Logan for this reason:  
> Re: Wow haha didn't know you were a Homestuck??   
> N!L: What the fuck are you talking about I'm trying to have a crisis.  
> Re: Anyway nice Vriska cosplay.  
> Give me comments I feed off of them like they r playground sand and I am a slightly younger version of myself   
> -WJ


	4. Bad Listeners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It'll be okay, right?  
> Well, you'll need to talk about that, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm throwing this up at the same time as the epilogue, because I am magnanimous. Also cuz it was originally one chapter that just ran way too long, so.   
> Wow, a whole chapter in roman's pov??? Like I said, this wasn't supposed to be the whole chapter lol.   
> Here's some reconciliation.   
> -WJ

The door to the main house might have snapped off its hinges- but it doesn’t matter, and you don’t care. You throw it open with excessive force, essentially falling outside as you trail behind Virgil. He’s quicker than you by far; he’s practically a  _ blur _ , in fact. 

You think Janus is calling after the both of you. After notifying Virgil of the situation, he’d been trying to calm you down, but evidently that hadn’t worked. You don’t even glance back at him, sprinting as you come upon the Clubhouse. 

As soon as you reach it, you fall against its wall, dizzy and panting. Virgil is already there, waiting for you to be ready. Or, perhaps he himself is just nervous, because he hasn’t attempted to push the door the rest of the way open. As it stands, it’s open just a crack, casting a sliver of golden light outwards. 

Virgil speaks up, and you can easily confirm that it was his nerves stopping him. 

“What… what do we do now?”

You glance at him, just from the corner of your eye. A small, anxious smile contorts your face.

“Well, we have him cornered, don’t we?”

Hesitantly- and perhaps confusedly, as he has no way of understanding just what you’re referencing- he nods.

“Well, it seems the time has come to profess our love for him,” you say it simply, as though that’ll make it somehow easier for any of you. You  _ want  _ to believe it’ll be as simple, if only for your own sanity. 

Virgil opens his mouth, clearly aiming to spit out some contradiction, but at this point the blood rushing in both your ears has cleared enough for you to actually hear the world around you. And what you hear, from inside this quant shack, is desperate and feverish arguing. 

Virgil steels his expression, inhaling sharply. He stretches his arm out and shoves the door open, crossing the threshold on long, unsturdy legs. You follow his lead without a moment of hesitation. 

As soon as you enter, you see  _ him _ , right across the room from you, and you aren’t in the least prepared for it. 

He (blessedly) hasn’t noticed you or Virgil, yet. He’s much too busy ranting incoherently at Patton, who is… also here, for some reason.

You can’t make out a word he’s saying, and there’s no way to tell if Patton can either. He’s shaking, pale and clearly panicking. But it’s  _ him _ . He looks a wreck, the poor thing, but he’s really  _ here _ .

You glance at Virgil, seeing his reaction matching closely to yours; lips parted in shock, face slack, his hands fisted at his sides. You’d take the time to admire him, too, if not for your current circumstances. Instead, you inch a bit closer for his support, tapping his wrist to draw his attention. He takes your hand without question, holding it so tight it’s nearly painful. 

Luckily or unluckily- you can’t be sure- the burden of speaking up doesn’t fall on either of you. Patton spots you but a second after you enter, catching sight of you over Logan’s shoulder. His eyes widen, his expression caught between relief and terror. Whichever it is, it’s very toothy. 

You try to flash him a smile back, but he’s already turned his attention back to Logan. 

“Logan-! Logan, listen, please?” He cuts the rambling off, tentatively reaching to grab the logical trait’s trembling wrists. 

“ _ What _ ?” He snaps back, harshly.

Patton takes a deep breath, staring intensely at the floor. When he looks up, he makes direct eye-contact with you first, and then Virgil, his shoulders hiking up anxiously. You steel yourself as Logan follows the gaze, turning around and finally seeing you. 

His eyes are big and round, his arms are shaking. His gaze sweeps over you both, stopping quite obviously on your connected hands. 

You worry, briefly, that he’ll slam a mask down over his face, as he so often has before to contain such strong displays of dismay as this. But Logan does quite the opposite. In less than a second, that shocked and vulnerable expression is swallowed up by a furious ire, one that you can’t help but shrink back at. Virgil squeezes your hand, as much for your comfort as it is for his own. 

Logan’s mouth opens, and you almost believe he’ll yell at you- scream his lungs out and hurl insult after insult- but, yet again, he challenges your expectations. 

“Patton, let  _ go _ !” His eyes constantly flit between Virgil and you, but he refuses to address either directly, “Let me go, I’m  _ leaving _ !”

Virgil’s frozen in place. You draw breath to speak, but Patton makes a very aggressive and un-Patton-like gesture that pretty clearly communicates one thing:  _ Shut it, Princey _ . You take the order, folding your unoccupied hand just under your sternum.

“Logan, just hear them out, please? Please trust me?” Patton pleads, one of his hands closing over Logan’s shoulder in a sturdy grip. The facet’s struggling lessens; he breaks his death-glare at you long enough to turn on Patton, his look softer but not by much. 

As if to give more incentive for Logan to trust him, Patton releases his arms, stepping back and giving him space. He holds his hands up, palms out, in a show of peace.

“I- I don’t think this is a good idea,” Logan hisses it out in a rush, like you and Virgil aren’t meant to hear.

It’s at this point that Virgil tries to interject, but yet again Patton waves his hands around angrily. It’s a strange form of some made-up sign language that probably means something like:  _ For the love of God let me handle this for two seconds before you jump in _ . Virgil, too, takes the order.

“If it doesn’t go well, then you come right back to me, ‘kay? I’ll take care of you, and you can tell me you told me so all you want, and I’ll never  _ ever  _ make you do anything like this again,” Patton gently assures, resting his hand on Logan’s shoulder, “But I really think you should let them explain themselves. It might help more than you think it will.”

“I- How do you know-?”

“Because they-” he looks pointedly at you, and you try not to shrink any further into yourself at the intensity he carries, “-have been so worried about you. Oh, don’t give me that look, they  _ have _ \- you know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought it would hurt you, kiddo.”

That mollifies Logan a good deal, he’s leaning into Patton’s touch. His gaze flickers to the both of you once more, eyes narrowing, before he’s huffing out a sigh.

“Okay. I- okay.” 

Patton grins briefly, much too wide and much too cheery for the circumstances, and he draws back. He walks, slowly, from the couch to the door- to you. He pauses, sending you and Virgil A Look. He leans in, not for very long, and whispers so only the both of you can hear. 

“I know what’s going on here, and I  _ do  _ believe you. I  _ want  _ to believe that you have this handled. But if you two  _ ever _ \- and I mean ever- hurt that boy again, even if it’s an accident, then don’t you expect me to vouch for you again.” 

His expression is deadly serious. 

You nod, as hard and as fast as you can.

“Thank you so much, Pat, I owe you one- I owe you  _ so many _ ,” Virgil whispers back, leaning towards Patton as he steps away from you. That firm, scolding expression melts into fondness at the words, and Patton shakes his head. He turns his back, and with that, he leaves. The door clicks politely shut behind him. 

And it’s silent.

Logan won’t look at either of you, determined to glare at the rug instead. 

But he’s not going anywhere. 

But neither is this interaction. 

But he’s  _ here _ .

Where can you begin?

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Virgil blurts, and yeah, that might be a start. Not an eloquent one, but asking for that would probably be a bit over-expectant anyway. 

Logan doesn’t respond to the apology. His shoulders hunch up further, his arms hugging around his middle. The anger is practically radiating off him in waves, such a fierce passion that it’s kind of screwing with your senses in that area.

But, you realize with a start- he isn’t just angry. No, it’s more complicated.

You look at Virgil, for confirmation. You find it in his mismatched eyes, swirling with someone else’s emotions as well as his own.

Logan’s  _ scared _ . 

“Spe- Logan,” you stammer, “I know that this seems, uh,  _ not good _ , but we really didn’t mean to upset you. The timing, it was just-”

He snorts, humorlessly, standing up much straighter and crossing the room in just a few long strides. He glowers down at you, then up at Virgil, face flushed. 

“Well, I’m sure you regret it  _ now _ . It’s not quite as funny anymore, is it?”

“It wasn’t funny at all!” You shout. 

“Oh, I’m inclined to agree with you, Roman.”

“I didn’t mean it like  _ that _ , and you know it!”

Logan makes a very, very awful and frustrated sound, tugging a hand through his hair.

“Oh, I’ve come to see that many things I thought that I knew about you are  _ wrong _ !”

Virgil shoots a concerned glance between the two of you, but you talk over him all in a rush.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, if you’d just  _ let us _ -”

“Let you what? Mock me again? Make a fool out of me?”

You growl, sharp and animalistic, tugging your hand out of Virgil’s and gesturing wildly. And then you make a bad decision. 

“ _ How  _ are you such a  _ horrible fucking listener!? _ ”

You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, sucking in a breath as though you could take them back in. Virgil  _ gasps _ , short and shocked, and his eyeshadow darkens down his cheeks like a waterfall. 

It’s quiet only long enough for Logan to really process, to really work himself up, like he’s about to berate you with even more fervor. It’s almost frightening.

“ _ I’m  _ a bad listener?! Because I seem to recall that the both of  _ you _ , last time I tried to talk to you,  _ laughed in my face!  _ How’s that for ‘listening’, hm? Did you even think about what I was-! When I was trying- I was _ trying _ to say-”

Virgil’s panic abates enough to make room for confusion. He leans forward, cautiously reaching for Logan.

“ **_What were you trying to say?_ ** ”

Logan winces at the distortion, hitting his hands away before they get anywhere near him, snarling.

“That I  _ cared  _ about you, so much, and I- I wanted to do well by you, even though I  _ knew  _ it would only hurt me in the end. Because I wanted you to be happy together, and that was more important than- than my own feelings. I had to leave you be, I knew it, but you just wouldn’t- you-!”

He’s not making any sense, dammit. He loses steam, drawing in gasping breaths. Exhaustion bogs him down, making him look weak and frail; he’s growing resigned to the situation, and his own words, as though he thinks they’re already out of his control. 

It breaks your heart.

“I wanted it,” he gasps, “I wanted a part of what you had,  _ badly _ . But I knew how ridiculous that was, and I was trying to tell you as much. I was giving you the out, so to speak, from me and my company, but you...” 

It’s as though all his anger from mere moments ago has evaporated like steam. He’s curling in on himself, his face tilted down. His voice shrinks to barely more than a whisper, nearly inaudible.

“You didn’t have to laugh at me.” 

Virgil jumps, like he’s broken from a trance, and wordlessly jolts forwards and scoops Logan up in his arms. The side struggles, but Virgil’s grip is unrelenting, nearly lifting him off the floor.

“Okay, that was your time to talk, now it’s ours,” he gives you a very serious Look, “Right, Roman?”

“Oh- yes, right,” you step forward, much less confidently than Virgil, and wrap your arms around the both of them. It is the Pinnacle of an Awkward Hug (mostly because Logan has not stopped trying to escape), but Virgil seems to think that it’s the right course of action, and you don’t have any other leads to follow. 

“Okay, point one: we weren’t laughing at you because you- uh, cuz you had a thing for us, I guess.”

“We were laughing because you were being stupid!” You tack on, somewhat-unhelpfully, “You thought we liked each other more than we like  _ you _ , that was the stupid part.”

“Yeah,” Virgil nods, “Cause you were right about one thing, L. We- uh, we like each other. A lot-” you snort at the phrasing. He gives you a sharp glare before continuing. “-But we like you, too.”

Logan stands frightfully still, his arms pulled up uncomfortably in some weak attempt to keep distance between his body and both of yours. 

“What- what are you talking about?”

You meet Virgil’s eyes in question. He nods, shifting so he can wrap an arm around your waist as well. 

“We love you, Teach,” his breath hitches, but you choose to take it as a good sign, “I love you, so much. You both- both of you have done so much for me- oh, how couldn’t I love you?”

“You get me,” Virgil adds, smiling sweet and warm at you as he speaks to Logan, “You’ve always been there for me. You know how to, uhm, deal with me, better than anyone, I guess. So, yeah. I love you.  _ And  _ Ro.”

Logan pushes back against the both of you again, but this time it’s not an escape; it isn’t a fight. You let go of him, and Virgil in the process, and allow him to step back. He doesn’t go very far.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, fragile, his head tilted to one side.

“Which part are ya stuck on, L?”

He glances at you, a positive whirlwind of emotion fighting behind his eyes. 

“You… I understand the both of you being romantically involved,” he starts, slowly, holding fingers up like he’s keeping track of points of data. “And I believe I understand my- my misinterpretation of your previous outburst, which is certainly a relief- though it does make me feel a bit silly for how strongly I reacted.”

“Oh, we’re all overemotional divas, sometimes,” you wave a dismissive hand, smirking at him. In return, he offers a small and unsure smile, and nods. 

“Yes. I just don’t quite get. Um. You- you and me _? _ ” His eyes widen after he says it, and you see a spark of something upsetting in them. It takes him a good deal of effort to say the next part: “You aren’t doing this just to console me, are you?”

“No!” You and Virgil shout in unison, horrified. 

“But you two are already perfect for each other!” He protests, “Your casual affection, your shared interests, your banter-”

“You say all that like we don’t have that with you, too!” Virgil interrupts. 

“That’s different.”

Virgil rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Is it? Or do you see it that way because you can watch us, but you can’t exactly watch yourself?” 

Logan quickly becomes concentrated on the question, opening and closing his mouth in lieu of a response.

“ _ We  _ can watch you, though! Like the way you and Virgil always seem to talk without ever talking, and just, like, shrugging at each other. It’s kind of creepy,” you point out. Virgil hums in agreement, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah. You and Ro’s whole poetry thing is literally- like, there’s no platonic explanation for that. It’s gross.” 

“I-” Logan cuts himself off, his eyes widening, “Perhaps you have a point.”

“We do. Look, it took you yelling at us about how obvious we were being for me to get off my ass, to actually do something about my crush on Princey here, which probably says something about perspective.”

Logan hums, thoughtfully, a surprisingly subdued reaction. You feel a striking amount of pride well up in your chest. You bump your shoulder against Virgil’s as a sort of high-five, a gesture that he returns with a smirk. This is honestly going better than you thought it would! (...Though you were under the impression that this conversation would end in tears or violence, so that’s not a very high bar).

“You love me,” Logan says at last, his expression blank. 

“Yup!” You confirm, popping the ‘p’. 

“Ah. Alright, then.”

He pauses. And continues to be paused. For time enough that you grow unsure of yourself. Is he… processing it? You really don’t know what’s going on in that brain of his when he gets quiet like this.

“Yes,” he confirms nothing in particular to no one in particular, “I feel  _ very  _ foolish now, in retrospect.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Virgil chuckles.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Logan’s face breaks into a smile, wide and brilliant, “I just- wow, this could have been so easily avoided,” he places his hand on his temple, staring into space. He trembles a little, and you fear you’ve somehow managed to get him crying again. But then he doubles over, his arm around his stomach as he giggles uncontrollably. His laughing turns wheezy very quickly, as his breathing is interrupted constantly by little shouts of amusement. “Oh, this was all so  _ absurd _ !”

You watch him, and very suddenly you remember a scene much like this, weeks and weeks ago. You understand exactly how he felt, then, when  _ he  _ saw  _ you  _ laugh for the first time in a long time. 

At this moment, his happiness is the only sight to you, and it is a beautiful one. 

Virgil lets out a soft laugh alongside him, hiding it behind his hand and biting his lip. Soon, though, he’s losing himself, and that sets you off too- and within seconds all three of you are cracking up laughing. Tears in the corners of your eyes, hands clutching stomachs, the works. 

You aren’t even sure what’s so funny! And that’s exactly what’s so funny!

It takes a while to settle down and sober up. You wind up on the floor, actually, before you calm down. You think Logan might be on the ground, too, but you aren’t very spatially aware. 

Virgil gains control of himself first, predictably. 

He rights himself, coughing into his fist, and fixing his hair. 

“So you’re okay?” He says to Logan, out of breath. 

“I have  _ no _ idea,” Logan wheezes in response, “But I love you both very, very much.” 

And that seems to be about the jist of it for all of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment.... Please...  
> -WJ


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You feel, softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this my repaying you for all the angst. I wanted to make sure there was a satisfying enough conclusion to the level of suspense raised, which I hope I've achieved (you don't know how angry it makes me when a fic goes really hard on the hurt and then has like, two sentences for the comfort. It's horribly anti-climactic.)  
> Anyway!!!! I love Virgil watch him be competent watch him  
> -WJ

The second you’re back inside, you fall backwards onto the couch without a second thought, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyelids hard enough for it to hurt. A groan- part exhausted, part relieved- rumbles up from your throat, and you sink your fangs into the side of your cheek to stifle it. You’re tired, sure, but you aren’t as much of a fucking drama queen as your- your boyfriends, actually. Cuz that’s a thing that just happened.

Fuck if you know how, by the way.

You feel the cushion by your head dip, the smallest bit, at about the same time that the cushion by your feet contracts abruptly. You huff, because you’re still a  _ little  _ bit of a drama queen, okay, and you’ve earned that right.

Long, spidery fingers tangle in your hair, brushing back your fringe and undoing your spiked up ponytail. At the same time, again, your legs are lifted just slightly before being dropped into a lap, and a large, calloused hand rests on your ankle. 

“I think I’m gonna sleep for, like, five months,” you mumble, letting your arms fall to the side and shoving your face into the couch cushion.

“While I’m fairly sure you were being hyperbolic,” Logan says, his hand catching on a tangle in your hair and slowly working it out, “I wouldn’t be opposed to some rest”

You snort. An obnoxious noise, but they seem to be like it anyway, so you try not to hate yourself too much for it. 

Roman makes some sounds that vaguely indicate he wants to talk. You wait. He’s quiet for a good, long while, his nails scraping along the loose threads of your ripped jeans. You crane your neck up to squint impatiently at him; him and Logan have this bad habit of disappearing into introspections mid-conversation, and it’s  _ very  _ annoying.

“I-” he starts, stops. Makes more sounds. “Hmm.”

You wait. After about ten seconds, you kick him ( _ very lightly! _ ) in the ribcage. 

“I was just  _ wondering _ ,” he finally says, glaring at you, “If you two are really feeling alright. What’s on your minds, or- how are you?”

Ah, there it is; the deceptively simple check-in question. Logan’s hand tenses in your hair, almost imperceptibly. You reach one of your own up to meet his, tracing your claws around his knuckles soothingly. 

“Um, better than earlier,” he says, “Much better, actually. Though I’m still a bit on edge, I suppose.”

Roman nods, a very soft look on his face, before glancing at you. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, too, and it almost makes you squirm. You let go of his hand in favor of fussing with your sleeves.

“’M good. Comfy,” you mutter, attempting a shrug despite your horizontal position. 

“Are you sure?” Logan prods, leaning over you concernedly. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, grinding your teeth. 

“I don’t know. It’s fine.”

Yeah, that’s not gonna work.

“It’s not a big deal.”

Getting further away, Virgil.

“I’m really fucking tired, okay?” Alright, a little harsher than strictly necessary, but that’ll do. It gets a laugh, at least. “Like, I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to  _ say  _ or  _ do  _ anymore, and I don’t have the energy to think about it. I  _ am  _ happy, though. Or, like, relieved. I guess I wish I were happy under- I dunno, different circumstances?”

The hand in your hair moves, slipping from your swoopy bangs and cradling the side of your face upside down. You let Logan tilt your head up. It’s a very odd sight, seen from such an angle, when he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he pulls back, you feel at least a little less like a living corpse.

“Gross,” you sigh. 

“You know what I think?” Roman muses, tapping rhythmically against your leg. 

“I never do in the slightest,” Logan replies.

“You can do that?” You ask.

He whacks your knee. You hiss. He ignores this.

“ _ I  _ think,” he carries on, “That we would be less tired if we took a nap,” he stretches his arms up with a yawn, as if to emphasize his point.

“That would be nice,” Logan agrees, “If it weren’t for the fact that I’d… prefer not to return to my room at the moment.”

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, again, before speaking up.

“I’d also prefer that you not do that. And we all know  _ my  _ room isn’t a good place to sleep.”

“Nor Roman’s, really. It’s very energetic.”

“Right, so-”

Whatever you’re trying to say is cut off as Roman once again lifts your legs up, shifting them to the side. He kicks off his boots, shifts around a bit, and proceeds to drape himself all over you inelegantly. You make a few vague noises of complaint and discomfort before he finally slots himself into a somewhat acceptable position on top of you. It’s not too difficult; he’s burly, but he’s still so very very short and bendy. You wrap an arm around his waist, holding him to yourself.

“So we’re staying here, cuz I already got settled,” he says with finality, his face pressed just under your collarbone. You arch your head back, toeing off your own sneakers and letting them fall to the floor as you look up at Logan. 

“Can’t argue with that, can we, L?” 

He looks distinctly exasperated with you, but you know him well enough to see that it’s really thinly veiled adoration.

“I could argue, should I be inclined.”

“That’s for sure,” Roman mutters, “We could get you worked up about anything if we’re annoying enough, specs.”

He’s very huffy about that comment (Roman has a point, though), standing up and stopping short when Roman whines at him.

“Where are you  _ going _ ?” He drags the last word out. You poke him in the ribs to make him shush. 

“I’m getting you a blanket, and a more suitable pillow for Virgil. You can hardly sleep comfortably like  _ that. _ ”

Roman groans- which is also an annoying noise- and snaps his fingers. A light, large, and fluffy blanket falls over the both of you instantly, in conjunction with something puffy and soft expanding beneath your head. You hum, sinking further into the conjured objects happily.

“Ah, right,” Logan mutters to himself.

“Good? Good, now come here,” Roman disentangles one of his arms from around you to make grabby hands at Logan.

“Oh, it looks cramped as it is. You know, I’m not that tired, anyway.”

You’re the one to get annoyed with him this time, making a sloppy gesture with your free hand. The couch stutters in place, almost like a glitch, before eventually succumbing to your will. The cushions extend way out past your cramped up little spot, making the large piece of furniture look more like an oddly shaped bed than anything else. 

“Good enough for you?”

Logan blushes brightly, refusing to make eye-contact with you. He mutters out something that might be an ‘ _ it’ll do, I suppose _ ’, or some other slightly stubborn assent, and shuffles over to you. You lift the edge of the blanket up when he reaches you, letting him fit himself comfortably against your side. He does so reluctantly, prompting you to drop the covers in favor of grabbing him by the hip and pulling him against you, pressing your face into his slightly ruffled hair. His breath hitches. You fight the urge to laugh.

Roman hums contentedly, uncurling from you just enough to clumsily get a limb around Logan’s shoulders. You’re decently certain that he’ll wake up whining about how sore his arm is from the position, but you leave that worry for later, letting yourself finally, finally relax.

Logan lays with his arms pressed awkwardly between his chest and your torso, but the tension steadily eases from him. Within minutes, he’s wrapped around you and Roman, nestled into your shoulder. You do laugh, just a little, when he does something akin to nuzzling you. You rub small circles into his hip with the tips of your fingers, slipping further and further from consciousness as you do so. 

You hear Roman muttering something, but you aren’t sure if it’s directed at you. All you are sure of is that his voice is rumbling and groggy, soothing you even further into sleep. The last thing you feel, before finally slipping away, is a messy kiss delivered to the side of your neck. 

<<<!!!>>><<<!!!>>><<<!!!>>>

You aren’t really unconscious, but you wouldn’t consider yourself ‘awake’ either. You lie comfortably in a middle zone between the two, surrounded by an amazing, burning warmth that starts with your skin and sinks deeper into your core the longer you feel it. You turn your face into it, shifting your body to press that much closer to the heat.

But then, a very small little part of that heat decides to jab you sharply in the shoulder. You groan, batting it away. It persists, prodding you a few more times. You huff, prying your eyes open with a good deal of spite towards the source of disruption.

It is- predictably- Roman. Grinning, loopy Roman, whose face is just inches from yours. You might move back, but Virgil’s chest only accommodates for so much space, so you have to accept the compromising position. 

“ _ What _ ?” You hiss, trying to surreptitiously rub the sleep from your eyes. 

“You look so cute when you’re sleeping,” he answers, dreamily. 

“You’re creepier than Remus, has anyone ever told you that?”

You feel a small bit of pride at just how affronted Roman looks. 

“It’s not  _ creepy _ ,” he argues, “It’s  _ romantic _ .”

“Close enough,” you respond, smirking at him. He glares balefully at you, but it’s very difficult to take him seriously when he looks just as tired as you feel. Speaking of: “Why did you wake me up, then, if I’m so aesthetically pleasing while asleep?” 

He actually looks a bit sheepish at that, giving an awkward one-armed shrug. 

“I don’t know, I just… I woke up and got this urge that I should maybe. Talk to you,” his voice breaks out of whisper repeatedly; he’s atrocious at volume control. Virgil stirs, grumbling something unintelligible and tightening his grip around the both of you, but he doesn’t seem to be waking. 

Roman gives a long pause, just to make sure he’s in the clear, before continuing. “It seemed important. Maybe it’s not, though.”

You give a breathy little laugh, rubbing against his ribs with the pad of your thumb. It’s a strangely intimate gesture, and one that- until recently- you never thought you’d get the privilege to offer. 

“You’re very impatient, Roman.”

“And you aren’t?” He inquires, quirking a brow. You ignore the comment. 

“What did you want to talk about?” You whisper, much softer, more serious. He meets your eyes for just a second, hesitating. There’s a pause of a good few minutes- in which his fingers play on the knolls of your spine and his eyes become increasingly unfocused- of absolute noiselessness. You wait patiently, not quite minding the peace of it.

You might be falling asleep again when he does find the words to answer, bringing you to attention suddenly. 

“I missed you this week.”

The words, short and simple they may be, drop a heavy weight onto you. You can’t identify the specific feelings- maybe guilt? Or remorse? Perhaps frustration? Well, regardless, something twists in your gut. The feelings are almost relieving, because even if they’re horrible, at least they’re  _ there _ , which is quite refreshing from this past week. 

You exhale, shaky. 

“I missed you, too. Although, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure if it was a week or not.”

Roman’s face flits from bittersweet to confused in a matter of seconds.

“What do you mean?”

Your face heats in embarrassment. You bury it in Virgil’s hoodie- which is admittedly a childish reaction, but you can’t bring yourself to care about that.

“Don’t tell  _ him _ ,” you gesture to the being you’re currently clinging to, “I don’t want him to concern himself too much.”

Roman purses his lips, making a small and concerned noise in the back of his throat. 

“Well, how bad is it?”

You sigh, a defeated and borderline pathetic sound.

“I just… I seem to have lost track of time, this past week. Truthfully, you could tell me it had been just a few hours, or that it had been a month, and I’d believe you.”

He gasps softly, which you think might be a little bit over the top, but alright. 

“Logan, are you saying-”

“I had no idea how long I’d been in there, yes.”

Roman’s quiet- deadly quiet- for a horrible stretch. You look up at him, knowing that you’re probably more of an emotional wreck than you’d like to be. To your surprise, the first thing he does is make a whining-crying sound, adjusting so that he’s holding the side of your face in his hand. He presses your foreheads together, breathing in a hitched and shallow way. Have you made him cry? Goodness, maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, if it has this kind of effect on him. 

You’ve always hated seeing him so distraught. He looks so much better when he’s grinning, when he’s happy and proud. But something about the rawness of his look now- it’s almost painful. 

“I can’t believe I-” his voice cracks, “I should’ve done something  _ sooner _ . Oh,  _ mi amor _ , if I’d known, I-”

“No, that’s not fair,” you interrupt, in nearly as broken a tone as his. “I’m the one that kept myself in there. I- I made you leave me alone in the first place!”

Virgil shifts in his sleep; you bite down on your lip, harshly. 

“Oh, please,” Roman snaps, but he’s also taking care to stay quiet now, “When you first found  _ me  _ in such a sorry state, the both of you were at my side in an instant. I should’ve known to do the same. I really  _ should  _ have broken your door down, no matter  _ what  _ Patton said.”

“Wait-” you nearly laugh in surprise, “You and Patton had a conversation about _ sieging  _ my door?”

He gives you a teeny little smile, a shadow of pride lingering in it.

“It wasn’t a conversation so much as it was him physically restraining me, but you get the idea. You know, I probably could have pulled it off if I tried at night instead.”

“I’m sure you could have, Roman,” you say, looking oh-so fondly at this reckless, ridiculous creature that you’ve somehow fallen in love with. The tension this exchange started with is quickly disappearing, much to your relief. “Although I don’t know if you would have gotten through to me, unfortunately. As it is, Patton is a very good mediator.”

Roman chuckles softly, his face screwing up in embarrassment. 

“Yeah, we could use one of those, couldn’t we?”

You hum in vague agreement, angling your head enough to give him a small kiss on the cheek. He gasps again, this time very obviously trying to be Extra, and he pulls back sharply. You roll your eyes at the shocked face he puts on, but you can’t hold up your frustrated façade when he leans in again and peppers your face with kisses. You fail quite spectacularly, in fact- your face flushes bright, and your smile grows uncomfortably wide. It feels  _ wonderful _ , to finally have this, after the wanting and wanting and wanting. 

Roman pulls back properly after that, his eyes twinkling and crinkled at the corners. You notice now the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and his forehead, so often covered by makeup. You’d ask why- they’re _ beautiful _ \- but that might be rude. You resolve to admire them quietly, while he gives you the opportunity. 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight now, of course,” he purrs, massaging just under your eyes with his thumbs. You get a glimpse of bubblegum-pink nail polish before they fall closed, your sleepiness returning to you.

In your half-asleep, warm, adoring state, you find yourself muttering a sickeningly sappy sentiment- obviously, if you were in your right mind, you’d never say it- just before drifting off. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

<<<!!!>>><<<!!!>>><<<!!!>>>

Your back hurts, your arms ache, and you _ really  _ need to pee. You’re also acutely aware of a heavy, uncomfortable weight pressing down against your sternum. You force your eyes open, only to find them stinging and also sore,  _ somehow _ . Like, they’re  _ eyes _ , how are they even allowed to do that?

A groan escapes you. You’d very much like to rub your face, but unfortunately your arms are trapped by that pressing weight on you. 

The memories of what happened and where you are flood back to you then, bringing a small smile to your face despite your discomfort. Logan and Roman are pressed into either side of you, their hands intertwined and resting on your stomach. It’s obnoxiously sweet- seriously, you might gag. But, like, in a good way. 

The cuteness of the situation is enough to distract you for approximately thirty seconds, because then a sharp pain shoots up from your lower back. Yeah, this is ridiculous, you need to get up. 

You try- very carefully- to shoulder your arms free. You manage it after way too much awkward maneuvering, and then you really don’t know where to go. You’re squished between them, and all three of you have gotten your legs very tangled together. The position is odd, but maybe if you could just find your center of gravity, you could teleport? But that would risk dragging one or both of them with you, and that probably wouldn’t be a good way to wake up, would it-?

Logan stirs next to you, lifting his head up with a small, sleepy sound.

“V?” He mutters, his typically slicked-back hair springing up in messy curls, falling into his face. 

“Oh, hey,” you give him an apologetic look, watching as he gropes groggily for his glasses, “Good, uhm- morning?” You glance up at the clock, confused by the timeline this author has fucked up so completely. You slept through the night, and it’s about five-forty in the morning, apparently. Much earlier than you’d ever wake up, but to be fair the three of you fell asleep at a 3rd graders bed-time. 

Logan grumbles something unintelligible, locating his glasses on the floor by the couch-bed and shoving them onto his face. 

You take the opportunity to free yourself from the little nest you’ve made, struggling up onto wobbly legs and leaning on the arm of the couch for support.  _ Jesus Christ _ that was horrible for your back. 

“What…?” Logan trails off, looking at you with squinted eyes behind his thick frames. The sight makes your lips quirk up in something like a smile.

“Nothing, L, I just had to use the bathroom,” you explain, keeping your voice hushed so as not to disturb a noticeably snoring Roman.

He nods, once, before shuffling back to his spot on the couch. He flops down, kicking his legs under the covers and curling up against Creativity. If you were more prone to cuteness- which you  _ aren’t _ , for the record- it would probably be a little (a lot) bit adorable. 

“’M not goin’ back to sleep,” he grouses, unconvincingly, “Just… laying down… to wait.”

_ Wait for what? _ You don't ask, choosing instead to settle your eyes on the sight of your two partners huddled close together. Okay, so it’s cute, so what? Lots of things are cute, no one has to make a big deal out of it!

You exhale through your nose, breaking your gaze from them long enough to actually move on to what you got up for. It doesn’t take long, and when you return you hover by the couch for a moment. 

A sort of restlessness- a very familiar one- has made its home in your chest. You rub at your eyes almost harshly, itching at the gunk caught in the corners. In all your soreness, you find it pertinent to stretch; arms above your head, then down to your toes, and in a few motions you're in a somewhat impromptu yoga routine.

By the end of it, some ten or fifteen minutes later, you feel a little bit less like a sloppily patched-together ragdoll of ligaments and muscle. You seat yourself gingerly in the corner of the sectional, just close enough to the pair of snuggling sides that you can run your spindled fingers through Roman’s hair. 

You pull your legs up beneath you, sitting criss-cross and summoning your headphones and laptop. They’re a bit far across the mindscape, but they come easily enough with a sharp pull. 

You settle in with a good horror flick, pulling your headphones over your ears and letting yourself zone out. You stay that way for an indeterminate amount of time, idly watching the suspense that plays out on screen while carding your hands through Roman’s hair (no matter how tempting it would be to ruffle Logan’s curls, you resist the urge, knowing that he can’t stand touches to his head). It should be boring- maybe even aggravating, sitting still for so long when you are the embodiment of jitters and jumps- but it isn’t. It’s something… peaceful, maybe, would be the right word. Or content, as you are with them, waiting patiently for Roman and Logan to awake.

And they do. Well, Logan does, about half-way through the film you’re watching. He props himself up on his elbows, straightening his glasses and looking up at you. 

You hit the spacebar to pause, sliding your computer off your lap and onto the cushion beside you. 

“Good morning. Again,” you send him a teasing smirk, watching him move up into a sitting position very slowly. 

“Good morning,” he replies, his smile awkward, “I must have been more tired than I first assumed.”

You hold back a small laugh, giving him a feigned look of importance.

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.”

“As… Sue, ’n me…” Comes the mutter from below your hand. You look down, somewhat surprised, to see Roman turning over in a semi-conscious state. You have no idea how awake he actually is, or if he’s just a weirdly perceptive sleep-talker- but either way you burst into a bout of startled chuckling. 

That seems to wake him properly, his head jolting up with a cut off snore. You pull your hand from his tangled hair, watching as he struggles to orient himself.

“Good morning, Roman,” Logan greets.

“Mornin’, Babe,” he responds gruffly, making Logan’s face flush red. He coughs, awkwardly. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,  _ Babe _ ,” you mock, the statement serving to darken his blush considerably. To be fair, your statement isn’t entirely untrue; your boyfriend is very fond of pet-names, so you’ve become very accustomed to them. And possibly a bit appreciative of them. 

Roman’s managed to sit up enough to slump back against the couch cushions, taking the blankets with him and wrapping them around his head. His eyes are narrowed enough that they look closed, and you are reminded of just how much he hates waking up early.

“Why are we awake?” He growls. 

You shrug noncommittally, gesturing to the still-elongated couch on which you all sat. 

“My back hurt.”

“We  _ did  _ fall asleep at about eight, last evening,” Logan points out. His eyes widen just after he does, pressing his index and middle fingers against his temple in sudden frustration. “Oh this will be  _ horrible  _ for my sleep schedule!”

You snort, shoving him lightly in the shoulder.

“Ah, yes, the worst of our worries.”

He glares at you, and your smile widens. Partially because messing with him is funny, and partially because you know your fangs make it hard for him to focus (which is also very funny). 

“I- Well, it’s crucial to keep a consistent sleep schedule, because you need to-”

“‘Maintain your circadian rhythm, to ensure a higher quality of living’,” you and Roman parrot, in near unison. You hardly blink at the coordination, but Logan seems very startled.

“ _ Ex _ -actly,” he mutters, bemusedly.

“You can spare us the lecture this early, Teach,” Roman tells him, “Cuz we already seem to have it memorized.”

“Ah,” a beat. “Good.”

There’s a short, companionable silence; Roman is still waking himself up, Logan seems deep in thought, and you briefly turn your attention back to the movie. A few minutes pass, and Logan stands. You look up at him in question as he shifts the couch back into its normal form, making his way across the room.

“Someone ought to get started on breakfast by now,” he says plainly, disappearing into the kitchen. You shrug, shifting your headphone back over your ear and settling in. 

Roman sinks out some ten minutes later, clattering around upstairs as he gets ready for the day. The morning sun is now clearly visible, the light filtering through the blinds. It probably won’t be long before Patton’s up and about, bringing with him the energy that the day really needs to get started.

When Roman returns, dressed up in some fresh clothes, he drops down beside you and leans his head on you. He presses his ear against the outside of your headphones, watching the movie over your shoulder. 

It’s nearing the end, so of course he has to ask you question after question after question about the plot. You pretend to be annoyed, but you answer them anyway, letting him gradually piece together what’s happening. His commentary is, as always, never-ending and loud, but again you tolerate it. It’s more fun like this, anyway.

The whole time, you can distantly hear crackling, and very clearly smell something delicious from the kitchen. Logan’s always been the best chef out of any of you, even if he doesn’t use the ability as often as he could- something about the technicality of it, or the precision needed, or whatever it was. 

You and Roman are bickering over the credits by the time he’s finally done, coming back into the room smelling of bacon and batter. You look up from your (pretty pointless) argument, smiling at him. 

“Hey, L.”

Roman glances up briefly, flashing a smile before going back to his impassioned diatribe that you were only half-listening to in the first place.

Logan hesitates by the doorway. You can feel his eyes boring into you from those few feet away, drawing a very exasperated sigh from you. You back out of the credits with a couple aggressive taps, giving a pointed look to the still-rambling Roman. 

“What?” He snaps, scrunching up his nose. You narrow your eyes before not-so-subtly directing the glance to your third, still hovering just inside the living room. Roman follows your gaze, his argumentative look turning quickly to exasperated understanding. 

“Hey, specs!”

Logan jumps, obviously having been locked away far into his own head. 

“Are you comin’ over, or what?”

He doesn’t move, but he does look a hell of a lot more embarrassed.

“Breakfast is ready. I- um, I didn’t want to… interrupt…” his voice goes quiet, he glances down at the carpet. 

“Alright,” Roman announces, a bit loud considering how close he is to your ears but okay, “What have we told you, Teach?”

“Yeah,” you agree, shutting your computer with a click and setting it onto the coffee table. “C’mere, stupid, and pay attention to us before everyone else wakes up. We’ll eat with them, later.”

He gives a small laugh, but does as he’s told. As soon as he’s within range, Roman pulls him down and wraps a leg around the taller being, essentially placing himself in his lap. You aren’t quite as clingy, this early in the day, but you do press your shoulder to his. 

Logan’s stiff at first, but just as he did last night, he slowly settles into the touch. You figure it’ll probably be this way for the next week or so- because the same happened with Roman, however long ago when this all started. 

That hits you with a wave of nostalgia and deja vu- smothering most of your other thoughts with its familiarity. You and Logan, personally taking it upon yourselves to help Roman all the same, just a lot more platonically back then. You like to think that’s what started it all, even though you probably had a thing for Logan way before then (wayyyy before then). 

You watch, absentmindedly, as Roman and Logan argue over the TV remote, apparently trying to settle on something to watch. It’s as sweet as it is annoying, a common theme that the two of them share in many aspects.

And God, it hits you what emotional wrecks they are. In a rare burst of confidence, you feel proud that you could be there to help these two get their shit together, relationship wise. Despite both of their intelligence, you’ve somehow become the competent partner. 

_ Partner _ . Boyfriend. Whatever you’ll call it. It feels nice to say, about Creativity and Logic. 

You sigh, resting your head on top of Logan’s. He looks at you, questioningly, because he can always tell when you get thoughtful. You smile at him, giving a half-shrug, because you know he knows what that means.  _ It’s good, not a big deal _ .

Roman wins the fight, eventually, if only because Logan’s off his game from being the primary center of attention. Which is even more like your first night together; Roman setting up some queer cartoon to watch while the three of you cuddle on the couch, content. 

You exhale, long and slow. You really  _ have  _ gone soft for them, haven’t you?

But, you really can’t say that you mind. Because...

They’re worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, this was delightfully fun to write! The perspective and tense really gave me the opportunity to play around with my syntax, as well as challenge me in some interesting ways vis a vis keeping the language interesting and avoiding repetition. I'll definitely be writing like this again, whether it's just present tense (very likely) with my usual pov (3rd), or with both present tense and 2nd person perspective (somewhat likely, in the future).  
> Something unique about this fic, when compared to my others, is how easy I found it to just keep going. It was natural to carry on writing, which doesn't happen a lot in my other works. However, this perk balanced itself out because this is Very Hard To Edit, Fuck. Maybe it's because the chapters wind up being so long, cuz i just can't stop thinking of cool new things to add, or maybe smth else idk, but either way it's usually easier to edit!! oh well.  
> Leave comments I'm fucking begging.

**Author's Note:**

> Give me comments and I'll give you my teeth- for the federal reserves ofc.  
> -WJ


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